Skip to main content

Full text of "Alden's cyclopedia of universal literature, presenting biographical and critical notices and specimens from the writings of eminent authors of all ages and all nations .."

See other formats







Digitized by tine Internet Arcliive 

in 2008 witli funding from 

IVIicrosoft Corporation 



Univehsal Liteuature 








Copyright, 1888, 



IlKK BERT, IIknuy AN 11,1,1AM. ( Aniilii-Amcr., ISOTiria'iS.)— 
Dolpli Pierson, tlie Dutch Huiitor.— The Last Bear on 
tho Warwick Hills. ..... 9 

IIek'deii, Joiiann Gottfrikd, {Germ., 1 71 1-1 (W.)— Man a 
Link lietwecn Two WorUls.-Outliving Ourselves.— A 
Kong of Life.-A Legendary Ballad, . . 19 

Hkkod'otus, (G'r., 48t-4iO b.c;.;)— Proem to hi.s History.— 
An Arolueological Investigation.— The Inundation of 
the Nile.— The Course of the Nile.— About the Croco- 
dile.— The Ph(jBnix.-Modes of P^nibalining.- Helen 
and the Siege of Troy.— The Descent of Rhampsl- 
nitus to Hades.— Tlie Doctrine of Metempsychosis.— 
Tlie Insane Freaks of Canibyses —He Murders His 
Brother.— He Murders His Wife-Sister.— Cauibyses 
and Pre.\a.spes — Cambyses and Cru3Sus.^How Cas- 
sia, Cinnani.)n, and Ledanum are Procured, . 29 

Hehiik'ha, Feunando de, {Span., 1534-1597.)— Ode to 
Sleep.— Ode to Don John of Austria, . 52 

IIkr'kick, Robert, {Engl., 1591-ir)74.)— To Ben Jonson.— 
Herrick's Apologia. —A Thanksgiving. —To Bios 
soms — To Daffodils.— Cherry Ripe.— Epitaph upon 
a Child.— Litany to the Holy Spirit, . . 55 

Her'schel, Frederick William, {Germ. -Engl., 1738-1822). 61 

HrtR'scHEL, John Frederick William, {Engl., 1792-1871.) 
—Tendency of I'hilo.sophica! Studies.— A Taste for 
Reading.— How an Earthquake Travels, . C3 

Hertz, Hendkick, (Dan., 1798- 1870.)— King RentVs Daugli 

ter, 70 

Hkr'vey, James, {Engl.. 1714-17,58.)- A Meditation at 
Evening.— A Meditation at Night, ... 80 

Hkr'vey, Thomas Kibble, {Engl., 1799-1859.>-The Con 
vict Ship.— Hope.— To One Departed, . . 83 

Hkr'wegh, GEonaE, {Germ , 1817-1875.)— The Midnight 
Walk.— The Protest, .... 88 

Hks'iod, 'Gr., about 850 d.c.)— Hesiod to Puiges — Hes- 
Jod's One Se.\ Voyage.— Good Counsel to Peises.— 
Pandora, the Beauteous Evil.— Man in the Golden Age. 
— Tlie Ever Present Invisible Gods.— Choosing a Wife. 
—The Time for Sowing and for Reaping.— Wintry 
Weather. -Lucky and Unlucky Days.— Proverbial 
Philosophy. - Zeus and Prometheus. — Astoria, the 
SUr-Goddess. — Zeus and tho Titans.— Zeua ami 
Typhceiis, , . , ,92 




Heylin [lia'lin]. Peter, {Engl., 1600-1662.)— The French 
People and their Language, .... 107 

Heyse, [hi'zeh], Johan>- Ludwig Paul, (Germ., 18.30- .) 
Christmas in Rome.— A Diege.— Conflicting Duties.— 
Returning from War, ..... 109 

Hky'wood, Thomas, (Engl, 1.580-16.')0.)— His own Wide 
Reading.— Psyehe in Klysium. — Nick-names of the 
Poets.— Pack, Clouds Away.— Search after God, . 115 

Hick'ok, LArBKN.s Perseus, {Amer., 1798- .)— 
Thoughts and Things, .... 120 

Hiq'ginson, Fhancis, (Anglo- Amer., 1588-1630.)— Journal 
of a Voyage to New England, . . .123 

Hiq'ginson, JIary Thacher, (Atner., 1830- .) — 
Gifts, ....... 125 

Hig'ginsox, Thomas Wentworth, {A7ner., 1823- .) — In 
a Fog. — A Puritan Sunday Morning. — Night in 
Camp, ....... 120 

HiL'DRETH, Richard, (Amer., 1807-1805.)— The United 
States at the Close of Monroe's First Administration 
— Tne Continental Congress.- The Duel between 
Hamilton and Burr.— Character of Alexander Hamil- 
ton. — Charact^'r of James Madison, . . Ki'j 

Hill, TnoMA.s, (Amer., 1818- .)— The Bobolink.— Tlie 
Winter is past. — Antiopa.— Lux Mundi, . . 1)2 

Hil'i.ard, OEORCiK Stillman, (Amer., 1808-1870.)— Excur- 
sion to Sorrento. — On Books, . . . 118 

Hill'house, James Abraham, (Amer., 1789-1841.) — Taniar 
and Hadad. — Hadad's Description of the City of 
Zion, ....... 154 

Hirst, Hknrt Beck, (Amer., 1813-1874.) -The Connng of 
Dian.— The Robin, .... 160 

Hitch'cock, Edwaud, (Ayner., 1793-1804.)— The Perma- 
nence of Scientific l^inciples. — The White Hills of 
Now Hampshire, ..... 165 

HiTc-ii'cociw. RoswKLi., DwiGHT, (AmcT., 1817-1887.)— Com- 
munism, ...... 170 

Ho'iiart, John Henry, (Amer., 1775-1830.)- The Con.sol- 
ing Power of the Scriptures, . . 174 

ffonnr."! fboJi/.l. Tiioma.s. (Engl, 1588-1670.)— Conceptions 
of the Deity.— The Necessity of the Will. — Ou Precis- 
ion of Language, ..... 176 

HorisE, ARcuiHAi.n Alexander, (Amer., 1823-1886.)— A 

Sweet (Jld Age, ..... 180 

PioDOE, Charles, (^Imer., 1797-1878.)— How the Law is 
Revealed.— Speculation and Knowledge. . . 182 

HoKK'MAN, Ci ARLES Fenno, (Atner., 1806-188-1.) -A Morn- 
ing llyinii.— .Monterey.— Sparkling and Briglit, ISO 

HoFP'MANN. August Heinrich, (derm., 1798 1H74.)— Song 
of an Exile.— The Lnii.s(iueiiet's Song at the Fair.— I 
ahU of Tilt e. I Jcrmnns National Wealth. . . 189 

HofF'MANN, TiiKoDuR Wii HELM, (dcrm., 1775-1822.) 
-Tlie Pj-rftMiiU Doctor, 193 



JTof'i.and, lUiitiARA V^RKAKH. (Etif/l., 1770 IS-M.) - Liibors 
of Love, ...... axi 

HoGO, James, (Scot., 1772-1835.) — Bonny Kilinony.^ A 
Biiy'8 Sung. — When Ulaggy Gangs Away.— The Sky- 
lark, .... . 210 

Iloi/HACH, Paci, IIknuy de {Ft., rr2a-1789.)-Serioiw Re- 
siilus from Trivul Causes, .... 216 

IIoL'uKuo, Lfuwio vox, (Dim., 16R1-1754.)— The Polilical 
Tiii.siiiith, ...... 218 

IIoL'cuoFT, Thomas, (Kngl., 174.V1809)— Gaffer Gray, 224 

HoL'LANn, JosiAii GiLUKUT, (Amcr., 1810-1881.)— The Hu- 
man Locomotive and its Track.— Counsel for Girls.— 
Gradation.— Wanted, ..... 22G 

HoL'LAND, (Henry IlicHAR!) Fox), I,onD, (Engl.. 1773-1810.) 
—Lafayette.— Louis XVI —Marie Antoinette. —Tal 
leyrand.— Napoleon Bonaparte, . . 23.3 

Holmes, Oi.iVKii Wendell, (.hncr.. 1809- .)— Old Iron- 
s'des.— Tlie Clianibered Nautilus. — Tlie Voiceless. - 
Bill and Joe.— The Old Jlau Dreams.— Nearing the 
Snow-lino.— The Two Streams. -The Angel-Thief.— 
Three Times Two— The .Vge of Grief —Nature Leak- 
ing in.— Genius and Character — Nature's Prepara- 
tion for Death— Byles Gridley's Book, . 246 

HoLST, Hermann Edi'ard von, (Germ., 1841- .) — The 
Origin of the American Union, . . . 263 

HUl'tv, LuDWif} Heinrich Christoph, (Germ., 1748-1770.) 
— Winter Song. -Spring Song. —Harvest Song, . 268 

Home, John, (Scot., 1722-1808.)— Old Norval and Young 
Norval. ...... 271 

H6mer, (Gr., about HM n.c.')— The Wrathful Descent of 
Apollo.— The Oath of Achilles.— Aelillles's Invective 
against Agamemnon.— The Homeward V'oyage of 
Chryseis.— A Tiff on Olympus- Hector's Reproach. 
to Paris.— Helen on the Rampart. —The Great Twin 
Brothers. —Helen's Reception of Paris. — Venus 
Wounded by Diomed.— The Human Race like Autumn 
Leaves. — Hector and Andromache.— The Trojan 
Camp at Night.— The Storming of the Grecian En- 
trenchments.— The Grief of Achilles for the Death of 
Patroclus.— Achilles to Agamemnon.— The Death of 
Lycaon.— Achilles's Rei)ly to Hector.— The Entreaty 
of theShade of Patroclus —Helen's Tribute to Hector. 
—Pallas at Ithaca —The Weaving of Penelope. -The 
Voyage of Telemachus.— The Murder of Agamem- 
non.— Helen at Sparta.— The Wanderings of Menelaus 
and Helen, Menelaus upf>n L^lysses— The Virtues of 
Nepenthes.— Mercury on Calyi)KO'>; Island.— Calypso to 
Ulysses.— Ulysses to Calypso.— Nausicaa and Ulysses. 
—The Orchards and Gardens of Alcinous.— The Palace 
of Alcinous.— Demodocus, the Blind Bard of Phieacia. 
—The Adieus of Nausicaa and^Noinan and 
Polyphemus —Circe and Her Palace. --The Entrance to 
Hftd»>s,— T'vpP«lii« fV'Kl Sisyphus in Hades. -Tt»c Song 



^hich the Sirens Rang:. —The Pliacaciaii Galleys.— 
Eumaeiis to Telemachus.— The Imprecation of Ulys- 
ses.— Ulysses and Antinoiis— Amphinomus rebukes 
Antinous.— The Retribution of Ulysses.— Ulysses to 
Eurycleia.— Penelope's Recognition of Ulysses.— 
Ulysses and his Father, .... 278 

Hood, Edward Paxton, (Engl., 1820-1885.)— The Battle of 
Dunbar, ...... 333 

Hood, Thomas, (Eiigl., 1799-1845.)— Resolution and Inde- 
pendeuce.— Farewell and Hail to Life. — A Lament for 
the Decadence of Chivalry. — Miss Kilmansegg's 
Advent— An Ideal Honeymoon.— The Moral of Miss 
Kilmansegg's Story.— November. — My Wife, Son and 
Daughter asleep together. — The Death-bed.— The 
Lay of the Laborer. — The Song of the Shirt, . 335 

Hook, Theodore Edward, (Engl , 17SS-1&11.) — Getting 
Ready for Company, ..... 350 

Hook'er, Herman, (Amer., 1804-1865.)— The Triumphs of 
Love and Faith, ..... 355 

Hook'er. Joseph Dalton, (Engl., 1817- .)— The Manu- 
facture of Opium. — A Mountain Camp in East 
Nepal, ....... 357 

Hook'er. Richard, (Engl., 15.53-1000.)- The Nature and 
Majesty of Law, ..... 363 

Hook'er, Thomas, (Anglo- Amer., 1.^80-1047.)— The Doom 

of the Unconverted. — The AVay of Salvation, . 367 

Hook'er, ■VVoktiiington, (Amer., 1800-1807.)- The Cura- 
tive Power of Nature, . . . .371 

Hoop'ER, Lucy, (.4mer., 1810-l&41.)-Osceola, . . 373 

Hoop'er, Lucy H/VMilton, (Amer., 1835- .)— King Fred- 
erick's Ride. — On an Old Portrait, . . . 375 
Hope, Thomas, (Engl, 1770-1831.) — The Cemeteries of 

Scutari.— The Wind of the Desert, . . . 377 

Hop'KiN.s. John Henry, (Amer., 1792-1868.)— Prayers for 
the Dead, ...... 380 

Hop'kins, Mark, (Amer., 1802-1887.)— The Bible coinci- 
dent with Nature —The Conditions of Progress.— 
Labor that ennobles, ..... 383 

Hop'kinson, Fra.vcis, (Amer., 1737-1791.)— A Collegiate 
Examination in Metaphysics and Ix)gic.— A Case 
Legally adjudged, . .389 

Hop'kinson, Joseph, (^Imer., 1770-1842.)— Ilail Columbia, 394 
Hok'ack, (Horn., 65-8, n.c.)— To the Roman People.— 
Horace to Mipcenas.— Daily Itoutine. — The Fountain 
of liandusia. — The Sabine Farm. — Horace's Petition 
to Apollii.— Horace at Home. — Invitation to Phyllis — 
Invitation to Ma'cenas.— A Model IU>st. -A Lecture 
on Oastronom v.— Horace's Tiiliuto to liis Father.- 
Paternal Admonitions. - Horace's Satire upon Him- 
Kelf. — A would-be Literary Bore.— He and She.— In- 
tactis opnlentior.— The Lively Cit turned Farmer.— 
A Valetudiimrian's Inquiries.- The Common 1M.~X 



I''r fur IFi'dllh and ("oiitent. — lIorai'i'"s Moim 
iiit'iif, ....... 8!»6 

HoRNK, tiEonQK,(Kn<jl., 1730-17(12.)— The I'salnis adapted 
to C'liri.stian Worship, .... 42,'5 

HoRNK, Richard Henqist, (Engl., 180;i-1884.)— The As- 
cent of Orion.— Human Progress, . 42S 

HoRNE, Thoma.s Hartwell, (Engl., 1780-1802.) — The 
Moral Teacliinjc of tlie Ancients.— The Precepts of the 
New Testament, ..... 4:i3 

HoKs'i.Ev, Samuel, (Engl., 17:33-1800.;— Our Lord's Sec- 
ond Coming, ...... .137 

IIoL-OHTON, [ho'ton], Lord. See Milnes, Kiciiard JIoxk- 
TON, ....... 439 

IIof.s.SAYE, [no-say], Arsi^ne, (Fi:, 1815- .)— The Elder 
Cl-6blllon and his Wife, .... 410 

Howard, Henry, Earl of Surrey. See Surrey, Earl of, 446 

HowK, Edgar Watson, (Anier., 1854- .)— Tlie Young 
Meeks at School,— The Men of Twin Jlounds, 447 

Howe, John, (Engl , 16:30-1705.)— Religious Belief at 
Cromwell's Court, ..... 450 

Howe, Julia Ward, (Amer.. 1819- .)-The Lamb Witli- 
out.— Battle Hymn of the Republic— Our Country.— 
The Unspeakable Pang, .... 452 

Howe, Samuel Gridley, (Amer., 1801-1806.) 4.57 

How'ell, Elizabeth Lloyd, (Amer., 1828- .) -Milton's 
Pi-aycr of Patience.— Milton on his Blindness, 458 

How'ells, William Dean, (Amer., 18:37- .)-Tlianks- 
giving.— The Mysteries.— The Song the Oriole Sings.— 
Our Woodman.— Optimists or Pessimists ?— The Arca- 
dian Shepherds, .... 400 

How'iTT, Anna Mary, (Engl., 1824-1884.)-On the Way to 
Ober-Ammergau, ..... 473 



HERBERT, Henhv William (Fjiank 
FoiiESTER, pseud.^, an Anglo-Aiiieiican 
autlior, born in 1807; died by his own 
hand in 1858. He was the son of the 
Dean of Manchester, received his ednca- 
tion at Eton and at the University of Cam- 
bridge, and in 1831 emigrated to New 
York. In 1833, conjointly with A. D. 
Patterson, lie began tlie publication of tlie 
American Mnntltly Magazine, of which lie 
was editor for tlu-ee years. His first work 
of fiction was The Brothers : a Tale of the 
Fronde (1834.) He was the author of 
several other novels or romances, of sev- 
eral historical works, and of numerous 
books on field sports, in wliicli sort of 
writing he excelled. Among his works 
are : Oliver Cromwell^ an historiciil novel 
(1837), Marmaduke Wyvll, and The Deer- 
stalkers (1843), The lioiuan Traitor 
(1848), Field Sports of North America 
(1849), The Warivirk Woodlands, and Fish 
and Fishinr/ in North America (1850), 
Guarica, The Miller of Martigny, and 
Sherwood Forest (1855), The Qnorndon 
Hounds, Dermot O'Brien, The Lord of the 



Manoi\ Henri) VIII. and His iSix Wives, 
Captains of the Greek Republics, Captains 
of the Roman Republic, The Chevaliers of 
France from the Crusades to the Marechales 
of Louis XIV., and The Royal Maries of 
Mediaeval History. He also translated 
into English the Agamemnon and the Pro- 
metheus of ^I^schylus. His last work was 
The Horse and Horsemanship of America 


Ke was three inches above six feet in height, 
and of bone and frame wliich were almost gi- 
gantic. His face and features were as sharp 
and as angular as the edge of an Indian toma- 
liawk ; liis brow was low, but neither narrow 
nor receding; on the contrary, it displayed 
consideralde amplitude in those parts which 
phrenologists are pleased to designate as the 
seats of ideality ; and some prominence in the 
point which the same learned gentry assert to 
contain tlie organs whereby man appreciates 
the relations between cause and effect. Across 
til is forehead the skin was drawn as tight as 
the parchment of a drum, indented only by one 
deep furrow running from temple to temple. 
His hair was thin and straggling, and what 
there was of it was as wliite as the drifted 
snow, as were also two tufts of ragged bristles, 
which stood out low down oti the jaw-bone, a 
little way below his mouth, alone relieving the 
monotonous color of his otherwise whislierless 
and beanUess pliysiognomy. J\s if to set off 
the whiteness of his liair, liowever, and of those 
twin tufts, his eyebrows, which were of extra- 
ordinary tliickiiess, were as Idack as a crow's 
wing, running in ;i straiglit line, witiiout any 
arch above the eyes. 

The eyes, themselves, wliicli were vorv deep- 
ly set, and, in fart, almost entombed between 
the sharp projections of the brow, and the al- 


most flcsliless processes of tliecliuulc-boiH's, were 
(lurk, twinkling, restless, never lixed fur a mo- 
ment, but ever roving, as if in quest of soine- 
tliing whicli lie was anxiously seeking. His 
nose was of the liigliest and keenest acjuiline, 
starting out suddenly' at an acute angle fn^ni 
between his eyes, and then turning as abru2)tly 
downward, in a line parallel to the face, the 
point at tlie curvature, or summit, appearing 
as if it would pierce tlirough the skin. The 
nostrils were rather widely expanded, andtheir 
owner had a habit of distending them, as if 
he were snulling the air; so that many of hi.s 
neighbors believed that he was actually gifted 
with a hound's instinct of following gan>3 by 
the scent. 

His mouth, to conclude, was wide, straight, 
thin-lipped, and so closely glued down upon 
his few remaining stumps of teetli, that it 
seemed as if it had never been intended to 
open ; and indeed it was the abode of an organ, 
which, if not endowed with great eloquence, 
had at least a vast talent for taciturnity. >Such 
were the features of the man who entered the 
room, walking in-toed, like an Indian, with 
long noiseless strides, with a singular stoop, 
not of his shoulders, but of his neck itself, and 
with his eyes so riveted to the ground, that it 
appeared very difficult for him to raise them to 
the faces of those he came to visit. 

He was dressed in a thick blanket coat, of a 
dingy green color, with a sort of brown bind- 
ing down the seams, and a sash of brown 
worsted about his waist. On his head he wore 
a sort of skull-cap of gray fox-skin, w'ith the 
brush sewed across it, like the crest of a 
dragoon helmet, about four inches of the white 
tag waving loose like a crest from the top of 
the crown. Two cross-belts of buckskin were 
thrown across his shoulders, that on the right 
supporting an ox-horn, quaintly carved, and 
scraped so thin that the dark color of the pow- 
der could be seen through it in many places ; 


and that on the left garnished with a long 
wooden-handled butcher-knife in a greasy 
scabbard. A tomahawk was thrust into his 
sash, its sharp head guarded by a sort of 
leathern pocket, and from the front of the 
girdle was suspended a pouch of otter-skin, 
containing balls, bullet-mould, charger, greased 
wadding, and all the apparatus necessary for 
cleaning the heavy rifle which he carried in 
his hand, and which, at least in his waking 
hours, he was seldom, if ever, known to lay 
aside. To complete his costume, his feet were 
shod in Indian moccasins, and his legs encased 
in stout l)uckskin leggins, supported b}- garters 
rich in embroideries of porcupine-quills, and 
laced over his rough homespun pantaloons. — 
The Deerstalkers. 


Tom and I set forth after breakfast, with 
dog and gun, to beat up a large bevy of quail 
which we had found on the preceding even- 
ing, when it was quite too late to profit by tho 
find, in a great buckwheat stubble, a quarter of 
a mile hence on the southern slope. After a 
merry tramp, we flushed them in a hedgerow, 
drove thein up into this swale, and " used them 
up considerable," as Tom said. The last three 
birds pitched into the bank : and as we followed 
them we came across what Tom pronounced 
upon the instant to be the fresh track of 
a bear. Leaving the meaner game, we set 
ourselves to work immediately to trail old liruiu 
to his lair, if possible ; the rather that from 
the loss of a toe, Tom confidently, iuid with 
many oaths, asserted that this was no other 
than " the damdest etarnal biggest bear that 
ever had been knowed in Warwick ; " one tliat 
liad b(^en acquainted with the sheep and calves 
of all the farmers round, for many a year. In 
less than toTi minutes we had traced him to 
the cave, wliereiinto the track led visibly, 
ami whence no trai;k rcturncil. The moment 


wo had liousml him, Tuiii h-ft iiic with direc- 
tions to sit down chjse to tlie don's mouth, and 
tliere to smoke my cigar, and talk to myself 
aloud, until his return from exploring the 
locality aidh'arning whether our friend had 
any second exit to liis snug winter-quarters. 
"You needn't he scart now, 1 tell you," ho con- 
cluded; "for he is a deal too cute to come out, 
or even show his nose, while he smells 'bacca 
and hears voices. I'll be back to-rights." 

After some twenty-tive or thirty minutes 
back he came, blown and tired, b\it in extra- 
ordinary glee. "There's no help for it ; Ik^'s 
got to smell hell anyway ! There's not a hole 
in this hull hillside but this." 

".Jiut can we bolt him ? " inquired I some- 
what dubiously. 

"Sartin," replied he scornfully, "sartin; 
what's there now to hinder us ? I'll bide here 
quietly, whilst you cuts down into the village, 
and brings all the hands you can raise; and 
bid them bring lots of blankets and an axe or 
two and all there is in the house to eat and 
drink — both ; and a heap of straw. Now don't 
be sto))pin' to ask me no questions — sliin it, 
I say, and jest call in and tell my brother what 
we've done, and start him up here right away; 
leave me your gun, and all o' them cigars. 
Now streak it." 

Well, away I went, and in less than an hour 
we had a dozen able-bodied men, with axes, 
arms, provisions, edible and potable, enough 
for a week's provision, on the ground, where 
we found Tom and his brother, both keeping 
good watch and ward. The first step was to 
prejjare a shanty, as it was evident there was 
small chance of bolting him before nightfall. 
This Avas soon done, and our party was immedi- 
ately divided into gangs, so that we might bo 
on the alert both clay and night. A mighty 
fire was next kindled over the cabin's mouth 
in hopes we might smoke him out. After this 
method had been tried all that day and all 


night, it was found utterly useless — the cavern 
having so many rifts and rents, as we could 
see hy the fumes which arose from the earth at 
several points, whereby the smoke escaped 
without becoming dense enough to force our 
friend to bolt. 

^Ve then tried dogs. Four of the best the 
country could produce were sent in, and a 
most demoniacal affray and hubbub followed 
within the bowels of the earth-fast rock. 
But in a little while three of our canine friends 
were glad enough to make their exit, mangled 
and maimed and bleeding; more fortunate 
than their companion, whose greater pluck 
had only earned for him a harder and more 
mournful fate. We sent for fireworks, and kept 
up for some hours such a din and such a 
stench as might have scared the devil from his 
lair. But Bruin bore it all with truly stoical 
endurance. Miners were summoned next; 
and we essayed to blast the granite ; but it 
was all in vain — the hardness of the stone 
defied our labors. 

Three days had passed away, and we were 
now no nearer than at first ; every means had 
been tried, and every means found futile. 
Blank disappointment sat on every face, when 
Michael l^raw, Tom's brother, not merely vol- 
unteered, but could not by any means be de- 
terred from going down into tlie den, and shoot- 
ing the brute in its very hold. Dissuasion and 
remonstrance were in vain — he was bent on it; 
and at length Tom, who had been the most re- 
soIvcmI in his oi)2)osition, exclaimed, "If he will 
go, let him ! " so that decided the whole mat- 

The cave, it seemed, had been explored al- 
ready, and its localities were known to several 
of the part}', but more particularly to the bold 
volunteer who had insisted on this ])erilous en- 
terprise. The well-like aperture, which could 
ulone be secsn from witliout, descended, widen- 
ing gradually as it got further from the sur- 


face, for somewhat more than eight ft-ct. At 
that di'pth the fissure turned off at right 
angles, running nearly horizontally — an arch 
of about three feet in height aiui some two 
yards in length — into a small circular chamber, 
beyond which there was no passage whether 
for man or beast, and in which it was certain 
that the well-known and much-detested bear 
liad taken up his wiiitcr-qtiarters. The plan 
then, upon which ^li(tliuel had resolved was to 
descencl into this cavity, with a rope securely 
fastened under his arm-pits, provided with a 
sufficient quantity of lights and a good musket, 
to worm himself, feet forward, on his back, 
along the horizontal tunnel, and shoot at the 
eyes- of the fierce monster, which would be 
clearly visible in the dark den by the reflection 
of the torches; trusting to the alertness of his 
comrades from without, who were instructed, 
instantly on hearing the report of his musket- 
shot, to haul him out, hand-over-hand. 

Tliis mode decided upon, it needed no long 
space to put it into execution. Two narrow 
laths of j)ine-wood were procured, and lialf a 
dozen auger-holes bored into each ; as many 
candles were inserted into these temporary 
candelabra, and duly lighted. The rope was 
next made fast about his chest, his musket 
carefully loaded with good two-ounce bullets, 
well wadded in greased buckskin ; his butcher- 
knife disposed in readiness to meet his grasp; 
and in he went, without one fear or doubt on 
his bold, sun-burnt visage. As he descended, 
I confess that my heart fairly sank, and a faint 
sickness came across me when I thought of the 
dread risk he ran in courting the encouTiter of 
so fell a foe, wounded and furious, in that small, 
narrow hole, where valor, nor activity, nor the 
high heart of manhood, could be expected to 
avail anything against the close hug of the 
shaggy monster. 

Tom's ruddy face grew pale, and his huge 
body quivered with emotion, as, bidding him 


" God speed," he gripped his brother's fist, gave 
him the trusty piece which his own hand had 
loaded, and saw liim gradually disappear, thrust- 
ing the lights before him with his feet, and 
holding the long queen's-arm cocked and read}^ 
in a hand that trembled not — the only hand 
that trembled not of all our party. Inch by 
inch his stout frame vanished into the narrow 
fissure ; and now his head disappeared, and 
still he drew the yielding rope along. Now he 
has stopped; there is no strain upon the rope ; 
there is a pause — a long and fearful pause. 
Tlie men without stood by to haul — their arms 
stretched forward to their full extent, their 
sinewy frames bent to the task, and their rough 
lineaments expressive of strange agitation. 
Tom and myself, and some half dozen others, 
stood on the watch Avith ready rifles, lest, 
wounded and infuriate, the brute should follow 
hard on the invader of its perilous lair. 

Hark to that dull and stifled growl ! The 
watchers positivt'ly shivered, and their teeth 
chattered witli excitement. Tlierc ! there ! 
that loud and bellowing roar, reverberated by 
tbe ten tlunisaiid echoes of the confined cavern 
till it might bave been taken for a burst of sub- 
terraneous thunder ! that wild and fearful howl 
— half roar of fury — half yell of mortal anguish ! 
With headlong violence they hauled upon the 
creaking rope, and dragged with terrible im- 
petuosity o\it of the fearful cavern — his head 
striking the granite rocks, and his limbs fairly 
chattering against the rude projections, yet 
still with gallant liardihood retaining his good 
weapon — the sturd}"^ woodman was whirled out 
into the open air \inwounded; wbile the fierce 
brute within rushed after him to the very 
cavern's mouth, raving and roaring till the 
solid mountain seemed to shake and quiver. 

As soon as he had entered the small chamber, 
lie had perceived the glaring eyeballs of the 
monstf-r; had taken his aim steadily bi-tween 
thcni by the strong light of the Imrning 


candles; ami us lie said, had lodgcil his hullit 
fairly — a statement which was veriiiod ]>y tin- 
long-drawn and painful moanings of the heast 
witliin. Aftei" a while these dread sounds died 
jiway, and all was as still as death. Then once 
again, undaunted hy his previous peril, the 
hold man, though, as he averred, he felt the 
hot hreath of the monster on his face, so near- 
ly had it followed him in his precipitate retreat 
— 2'i'''P''^i^'^''l t*^ heard the savage in its hold. 

Again he vanished from our sight ; again his 
musket-shot roared like the voice of a volcano 
from the vitals of the rock ; again he was 
dragged into dajdight. But this time, madden- 
ed with wrath and agony, yelling with rage 
and pain, streaming with gore, and white with 
foam, which tlew On every side, churned from 
his gnashing tusks, the bear rushed after him. 
One mighty hound brought it clear out of the 
deep chasm — the bruised trunk of the daring 
hunter, ami the confused group of men who 
had been stationed at the rope, and who were 
now, between anxiety and terror, floundering 
to and fro, hindering one another — lay within 
three, or at most four, paces of the frantic 
monster; while, to increase the peril, a wild 
and ill-directed volley, fired in haste and fear, 
was poured in by the watchers, the bullets 
whistling on every side, but with far greater 
])eril to our friends than to the object of their 
aim. Tom drew his gun up coolly — pulled — 
but no spark replied to the unlucky flint. 
With a loud curse he dashed the useless musket 
to the ground, unsheathed his butcher-knife, 
and rushed on to attack the wild beast single- 

At the same point of time I saw my sight, as 
I fetched up my rifle, in clean relief against 
the dark fur of the head, close to the root of 
the left ear. My finger was upon the trigger, 
when, mortally wounded long before, exhaust- 
ed by his dying effort, the huge brute pitched 
headlong, without waiting for my shot, and. 

2 '7 


within ten feet of his destined victim, " in one 
wild roar expired." He had received all four 
of Michael's bullets ; the first shot had plant- 
ed one ball in his lower jaw, which it had shatter- 
ed fearfully, and another in his neck; the 
second had driven one through the right eye 
into the very brain, and cut a long deep fur- 
row on the crown with the other. Six hun- 
dred and odd pounds did he weigh. He was 
the largest and the last. None of his shaggy 
brethren have visited, since his decease, the 
woods of Warwick ; nor shall I ever more, I 
trust, witness so dread a peril so needlessly en- 
countered. — The Waripxch Woodlands. 


German author; born in 1744; died in 
1803. IIo was inttjiided for a .surgeon, but 
liaving fainted during the iirst operation 
of whicli lie was a witness, lie turiajd his 
attenti(;n to theology, and studied at Kii- 
nigsberg. Towards the close of 1704, he 
was appointed teacher and preacher in the 
Cathedral School at Riga. In 1770 he w^as 
ajipointed Court Preacher at Biiekl^erg. 
The University of Gottingen offered him 
tlie chair of Theology, but his acceptance 
of it was prevented by a call to Weimar, 
in 177G, and the Grand Duke appointed 
him Court Preacher, General Superintend- 
ent, and Councillor of the Upper Consist- 
ory. In 1881, he became President of tlie 
Upper Consistory. His Avorks, sixty vol- 
umes in all, relate to literature, art, phi- 
losophy, histor}-, and religion. Among them 
are : Fragments on Recent German Litera- 
ture (1707), Critical Forests (1769), The 
Spirit of Hebrew Poetry (1182^, Ideas to- 
wards a Philosoplnj, (translated into Eng- 
lish under the title Outlines of the History 
of Mankind (1784-91), The Cid and Folk- 


Everything in Nature is connected : one 
state pushes forward and prepares anotlier. If 
then man be the last and highest link, closing 
the chain of terrestrial organization, he must be- 
gin the chain of a higlier order of creatures as 
its lowest link, and is probably, therefore, the 
middle ring between two adjoining systems of 
the creation. He cannot pass into any other 
organization upon eartli without turning back- 
wards and wiindering in a circle. That he 
should stand still is impossible ; since no living 
power in the dominions of the most active 


goodness is at rest : thus there must be a step 
before him, close to him, yet as exalted above 
him, as he is pre-eminent over the brute, to 
whom he is at the same time nearly allied. 
This view of things, which is supported by all 
the laws of nature, alone gives us the key to the 
wonderful phenomenon of man, and at the 
same time to the only philosophy of his his- 
tory. . . . 

Far as the life of man here below is from be- 
ing calculated for eternity ; equally far is this 
incessantly revolving sphere from being a re- 
pository of permanent works of art, a garden 
of never-fading plants, a seat to be eternally in- 
habited. We come and go : every moment 
brings thousands into the world, and takes 
thousands out of it. The Earth is an inn for 
travelers ; a planet, on which birds of passage 
rest themselves, and from which they hasten 
away. The brute lives out his life ; and, if his 
years be too few to attain higher ends, his in- 
most purpose is accomplished : his capacities 
exist, and he is what he was intended to be. 
Man alone is in contradiction with himself, and 
with the Earth : for, being the most perfect of 
all creatures, his cai)acities are the farthest 
from being ])erfected, even when he attains the 
longest term of life before he quits the world. 
But the reason is evident : his state, being the 
last upon tliis Earth, is the first in another 
sphere of existence, with respect to which he 
appears here as a child making his first essays. 
Thus he is the representative of two worlds 
at once ; and henco the apparent duplicity of 
his essence. . . . 

If sn[)('ri()r creatures look down upon us, 
they may view us in the same light as we do 
the Diiddle species, with which Nature makes a 
transition from one element to another. The 
ostrich ilaj)s his feeble wings to assist himself 
in running, but they cannot enable him to lly ; 
his hi'avy body confines liim to the ground. 
V et flic organizing Parent has taken care of 


liim, as well as of every middle creature ; for 
they are all perfect in themselves, and only ap- 
pear defective to our eyes. It is the same with 
man here below : his defects are perplexing t(j 
an earthly mind; but a superior spirit that 
insj)ects the internal structure, and sees more 
links of the chain, may indeed pity, but cannot 
despise him. He perceives why man must <]uit 
the world in so many different stales, young 
and old, wise and foolish, grown gray in second 
childhood, or an tfmbryo yet unborn. ()mnij)ii- 
tent goodness embraces madness and deformity, 
all the degrees of cultivation, and all the errors 
of man, and wants not balsams to Ileal the 
wounds that death alone could mitigate. Since 
probably the future state springs out of the 
present, as our organization from inferior ones, 
its business is no doubt more closely connected 
with our existence here than we imagine. The 
garden above blooms only with ])lantsof which 
the seeds have been sown here, and put 
forth their first germs from a coarser husk. If, 
then, as we have seen, sociality, friendsliip, or 
active participation in the pains and pleasures 
of others, be the principal end to which human- 
ity is directed, this finest flower of human life 
must necessarily there attain the vivifying 
form, the overshadowing height, for which our 
lieart thirsts in vain in any earthly situation. 
Our brethren above, therefore, assuredly love 
us with more warmth and purity of affection, 
than we can bear to them : for they see our 
state more clearly ; to them the moment of time 
is no more, all discrepancies are harmonized, 
and in us they are probably educating unseen 
partners of their happiness, and companions of 
their labors. I^ut one step farther, and the 
oppressed spirit can breathe more froel}', the 
wounded heart recovers : they see the passenger 
approach it, and stay his sliding feet with a 
powerful hand. 

Since, therefore we are of a middle species 
between two orders, and in some measure par- 


take of both, I cannot conceive that the Future 
state is so remote from the Present, and so in- 
communicable with it, as the animal part of 
man is inclined to suppose, and indeed many 
steps and events in the history of the human 
race are to me incomprehensible, without the 
operation of superior influence. A divine 
economy has certainly ruled over the human 
species from its first origin, and conducted him 
into his course the readiest way. . . . 

Thus much is certain, that there dwells an 
infinity in each of man's powers, which cannot 
be developed here, \yhere it is repressed by 
other powers, by animal senses and appetites, 
and lies bound as it were to the state of terres- 
trial life. Particular instances of memory, of 
imagination, nay, of prophesy, and prehension, 
have discovered wonders of that hidden treas- 
ure which reposes in the human soul ; and in- 
deed the senses are not to be excluded from 
this observation. That diseases, and partial 
defects, have been the principal occasions of 
indicating this treasure, alters not the nature 
of the case ; since this very disproportion was 
requisite, to set one of the weights at liberty, 
and display its power. 

The expression of Leibnitz, that the soul is 
a mirror of the uiiiverse, contains perhaps a 
more profound truth than has usually been 
educed from it : for the powers of a universe 
seem to lie concealed in her, and require only 
an organization, or a series of organizations, to 
set them in action. Sui»reme goodness will 
not refuse her this organization, but guides her 
like a child in leading-strings, gradually to 
prepare her for the fulness of increasing enjoy- 
ment, under a persuasion that her powers and 
senses are self-aocpured. Even in her present 
fetters upace and time are to her empty words : 
they measures and exi)ress relations of the body, 
but not of her internal capacity, which extends 
beyond time and spaiu", when it acts in perfect 
internal (piict. (Jive thyself no couceru for 


tlie place and hour of tliy future existence: 
the Sun, that enlightens thy days, is necessary 
to tliee (hiring thy abode and occupation upon 
eartli ; and so hmg it obscures all tlie celestial 
stars. When it sets, the universe will apjiear 
in greater magnitude ; the sacred night, that 
once enveloped thee, and in which thou wilt 
be enveloped again, covers thy Earth with 
shade, and will open to thee the s})lendid vol- 
ume of immortality in Heaven. There are 
habitations, worlds, and spaces, that bloom in 
unfading youth, though ages on ages have 
rolled over them, and defy the changes of time 
and season ; but everything that appears to 
our eyes decays, and perishes, and passes away ; 
and all the pride and happiness of Earth are 
exposed to inevitable destruction. 

This earth will be no more, when thou thy- 
self still art, and enjoyest God and his creation 
in other abodes, and differently organized. 
On it thou hast enjoyed much good. On it 
thou hast attained an organization, in which 
thou hast learned to look around and above 
thee as a child of Heaven. Endeavor, there- 
fore, to leave it contentedly, and bless it in the 
field, where thou hast sported as a child of im- 
mortality, and as the school, where thou hast 
been brought up in joy, and in sorrow, to man- 
hood. Thou hast no farther claim on it ; it 
has no farther claim on thee. As the flower 
stands erect, and closes the realm of the sub- 
terranean inanimate creation, to enjoy the 
commencement of life, in the region of day ; so 
is man raised tibove all the creatures that are 
bowed down to the Earth. With uplifted eye, 
and outstretched hand, he stands as a son of 
the family, awaiting his father's call. — Transl. 
ofT. Chukchill. 


What we call outliving ourselves — that is, a 
kind of death — is, with souls of the better sort, 
but sleep, which precedes a new waking, a re- 


laxution of the bow which prepares it for new 
use. So rests the fallow field, in order to pro- 
duce the more plentifully hereafter. So dies 
the tree in winter, that it ma^' put forth and 
blossom anew in the spring. Destiny never 
forsakes the good man, as long as he does not 
forsake himself, and ignobly des])air of himself. 
The Genius which seemed to have departed 
from him, returns to him again, at the right 
moment, bringing new activit}', fortune and 
joy. Sometimes the Genius comes in the shape 
of a friend, sometimes in that of an unexpected 
change of times. Sacrifice to this Genius even 
though you see him not! Hope in back-look- 
ing, returning Fortune, even when you deem 
her far off! If the left side is sore, lay your- 
self on the right ; if the storm has bent your 
sapling one way, bend it the other way, until 
it attains once more, the perpendicular medium. 
You have wearied your memory ? Then exer- 
cise your understanding. You have striven 
too diligently after seeming, and it has deceived 
you ? Now seek being. That will not de- 
ceive. Unmerited fame has spoiled you? 
Thank Heaven that you are rid of it, and seek, 
in your own worth, a fame which cannot be 
taken awa_y. Nothing is nobk-r and more ven- 
erable than a man who, in spite of fate, perse- 
veres in his duty, and who, if he is not happy 
outwardly, at least deserves to be so. He will 
certainly become so at the right season. The 
Serj)ent of time often casts her slough, and 
brings to the man in his cave, if not the fabled 
jewel in her h(>ad and the rose in her mouth, at 
least medicinal herbs which procure him ob- 
livion of the past, and restoration to new life. 

IMiilosophy al)ounds in remedies designed to 
console us for misfortunes endured, but un- 
questionably its best remedy is when it 
strengthens us to bear new misfortunes, and 
imparts t<. us a firm reliance on ourselves. 
The illusion wliiili weakens the faculties of the 
.soul, conies, for tbe most jtart. from without. 


But the objects wliii^h environ us are not our- 
selves. It is sad indeed, wlien tlie situation in 
which a man is placed is so embittered and 
made so wretched, that he has no desire to 
touch one of its grapes or flowers, because they 
crumble to ashes in his hands, like those fruits 
of Sodom. Nevertheless, the situation is not 
himself; let him, like the tortoise, draw in his 
limbs, and be what he can and ought. The 
more he disregards the consequences of his ac- 
tions, the more repose he has in action. There- 
by the soul grows stronger and revivifies itself, 
like an ever-springing fountain. The fountain 
does not stop to calculate through what regions 
of the earth its streams shall flow, what foreign 
matter it shall take in, and where it shall 
finally lose itself. It flows from its own fulness, 
with an irrepressible motion. That whicli 
others show us of ourselves is only appearance. 
It has always some foundation, and is never to 
be wholly despised ; but it is only the reflection 
of our being in them, mirrored back to us from 
their own ; often a broken and dim form, and 
not our being itself. Let the little insects 
creep over and around you, and be at the ut- 
termost pains to make you appear dead ; they 
work in their nature. Work you in yours, and 
live ! In fact, our breast, our character, kee])s 
us always more and longer upright, than all 
the acumen of the head, than all the cunning 
of the mind. In the heart we live, and not in 
the thoughts. The opinions of others may bo 
a favorable or unfavorable wind in our sails. 
As the ocean its vessels, so circumstances at 
one time may hold us fast, at another may pow- 
erfully further us ; but ship and sail, comjiass, 
helm, and oar, are still our own. Never, then, 
like old Tithonus, grow gray in the conceit that 
your youth has passed away. Kather, with 
newly awakened activity, let a new Aurora 
daily spring from your arms. — Transl. of F. 
H. Hedge. 



Time more swift than wind and billows, 
Fleeth. Who can bid it stay ? 

To enjoy it when 'tis present, 
To arrest it on its way, 

This, ye brothers, will the fleeting 
Of the winged days restrain; 

Let us strew life's path with roses, 

For its glory soon will wane ! 

Eoses ! for the days are merging 

Into winter's misty tide, 
Roses ! for they bloom and blossom 

Round about on every side. 
On each spray there blossom roses, 

On each noble deed of youth ; 
Happy he who, till its warning. 

E'er hath lived a life of truth. 

Days, be ye like a garland. 

Crowning locks of snowy white, 
Blooming with new brightness round them. 

Like a youthful vision bright. 
E'en the dark-hued flowers refresh us 

With repose of matchless price. 
And refreshing breezes waft us 

Kindly into Paradise. 

Tmnsl. of Alfred Baskebvillb. 


Among green, pleasant meadows, 

All in a grove so wild. 
Was set a marble image 

Of the Virgin and her child. 

There, oft, on summer evenings 

A lovely boy would rove. 
To i)lay beside tlic image 

That sanctified the grove. 

Oft sat his mother by liim, 
Among the shadows dim. 

And told how the Lord Jesua 
Was oni-<- a child liko him. 


" And now from highest licaven 
He dotli look down each day, 

And sees whatc'er tliou docst, 
And lioars wliat tliou dost say." 

Thus spake the tender mother: 

And on an evening bright, 
When the red, round sun descended, 

'Mid clouds of crimson light, 

Again the boy was playing, 

And earnestly said he, 
"0 beautiful Lord Jesus, 

Come down and play with me ! 

« I'll find thee flowers the fairest, 
And weave for thee a crown ; 

I will get thee ripe red strawberries, 
If thou wilt but come down. 

" holy, holy Mother, 

Put him down from off thy knee ! 
For in these silent meadows 

There are none to play with me." 

Thus spak'o the boy so lovely : 
The while his mother heard. 

And on his prayer she pondered, 
But spake to him no word. 

That selfsame night she dreamed 

A lovely dream of joy. 
She thought she saw young Jesus 

There, playing with the boy. 

" And for the fruits and flowers 
Whi(;h thou hast brought to me. 

Rich lik'ssings shall be givyn 

A thousandfold to thee. ^ 

" For in the fields of heaven 

Thou shalt roam with me at will. 

And of bright fruits celestial 

Thou shall have, dear child, thy fill." 

Thus tenderl}' and kindly 

The fair child Jesus spoke. 
And full of careful musings 

His anxious mother woke. 



And thus it was accomplished, 
In a sliort month and a day, 

That lovely boy, so gentle, 
Upon his deathbed lay. 

And thus he spoke in dying : 

" mother dear, I see 
The beautiful child Jesus 

A-coming down to me ! 

"And in his hand he beareth 
Bright flowers as white as snow, 

And red and juicy strawberries, — 
Dear mother, let me go ! " 

He died, and that fond mother 
Her tears could not restrain ; 

But she knew he was with Jesus 
And she did not weep again. 

Transl. of Mary Howitt. 



HERODOTUS, a Greek traveler and 
liistorian, born at Halicarnassus, in Asia 
MiiK^r, about 484 B. c. ; died probably at 
the Greek colony of Thuiiiun, in Italy, 
about 420 U. C. Of his jjersonal history 
little is authentically recorded. That he 
was possessed of considerable wealth is 
evident from tlie extensive journeys which 
he undertook ; that he was versed in all 
the literature of his time is shown by his 
writings throut^fhout ; there is, however, 
no evidence that lie was acquainted with 
any language except Greek. His journey 
to Egyjjt probably took place when he was 
twenty-four years of age, and he seems to 
have remained in that country about six 
3'ears. His other journeyings, the dates 
of whicli are uncertaiji, took him to Baby- 
lon, Susa, the Persian capital, Scythia, 
Thrace, and all over Greece proper, Asia 
Minor, and some of the Grecian islands. 
The countries visited by him extend for 
1700 miles from east to west, and more 
than 1600 miles from north to south, cov- 
ering nearly all of the habitable globe as 
it was known to the Greeks. He also 
picked up such vague information as he 
could of the regions lying beyond those 
which he visited. At the age of about 
thirt3'-seven he took up his residence at 
Athens, having fairly entered upon the 
composition of his great work, to the elab- 
oration of which the remaining years of 
his life were mainly devoted. It is divided 
into nine Books, each bearing the name of 
one of the nine Muses. In the opening 
sentence he thus sets forth his purpose : 


These jvre the researches of Herodotus of 


Halicarnassns, whicli he publishes in the hope 
of thereby preserving from decay the remem- 
brance of what men have done, and of prevent- 
ing the great and wonderful actions of the 
Greeks and the Barbarians from losing their 
due meed of glory ; and withal to put on record 
what were their grounds of feud. 

The leading aim was to narrate tlie con- 
test between the Persians and Greeks — 
that is, between Asia and Europe — which 
was formally begun by Darius Hystaspis, 
in 490 B. c, and closed by the signal de- 
feats of the forces of Xerxes at Plata3a and 
Mycay, seventeen years later. But the 
history of this war is continually broken 
in upon by Avhat miglit properly be styled 
" Researches and Inquiries of Travel." 
He is suj)posed to have written another 
work upon Assyrian History, but if it was 
written, no part of it is now extant. The 
work of Herodotus has been often trans- 
lated into English, notably by Gary and 
Beloe. But the earlier translations are 
sui)erseded by that of George Rawlinson 
(1858-1860 ; 3d ed. 1878) assisted by his 
brother, Sir Henry Kawlinson, and Sir 
James Gardner Wilkinson. This transla- 
tion is accompanied by Notes, Disserta- 
tions, and otlier critical a])paratus, exceed- 
ing in bulk tlie original of the " Father of 

The History of the Gra:>co-Persian war 
strictly begins with the Fiftli Book. Per- 
haps the most interesting portions of the 
whole are Book II. (" p^rato "), wliich de- 
scribes Egypt, and Book II 1. ^"Thalia"), 
which narrates the mad freaks of ('ambyses. 
King of Persia, the son and successor of 
tlie great Cyrus, and predecessor of Darius 
Hystaspis. Our extracts will be wholly 



fro 111 tliese two books, as translated by 


The Egyptians, before the reign of tlioir 
King Psaminetichus, bebeved themselves to 
be the most ancient of mankind. Since Psam- 
metichus, however, made an attempt to dis- 
cover who were actually tlu; primitive race, 
tliey have been of opinion that while they sur- 
pass all other nations, tlie Phrygians surpass 
them in antiquity. This king, finding it im- 
possible to make out by dint of inquiry what 
men were the most ancient, contrived the fol- 
lowing method of discovery: — He took two 
children of the common sort, and gave them 
over to a herdsman to bring up at his folds, 
strictly charging him to let no one utter a word 
in their presence, but to keep them in a sequest- 
ered cottage, and from time to time to intro- 
duce goats to their apartment, see that they 
got their till of milk, and in all other respects 
look after them. His object herein was to 
know, after the indistinct babblings of infancy 
were over, what word they would first articu- 
late. It happened as he had anticipated. The 
herdsman obeyed his orders for two years, and 
at the end of that time, on his one day open- 
ing the door of their room and going in, the 
children both ran up to him with outstretched 
arms, and distinctl}'^ said Jockos. When this 
first happened, the herdsman took no notice, 
but afterwards w-hen he observed, upon coming 
often to see them, that the word was constant- 
ly in their mouths, he informed his master, and 
by his command brought the children into his 
presence. Psammetichus then himself heard 
them say the word, upon which he then pro- 
ceeded to make inquiry what people there 
were who called anytliing brkos ; and hereup- 
on he learnt that bekos was tlie Phrygian name 
for " bread." In consideration of this circum- 
stance the Egyptians yielded their claims, and 


admitted the greater antiquity of the Phrygians. 
That these were the real facts I learnt at Mem- 
phis from tlie priests of Vulcan. The Greeks, 
among other foolish tales, relate that Psammet- 
ichus had the children brought up by women 
whose tongues he had previously cut out ; but 
the priests said their bringing up was such as 
i have described above. 


Perhaps after censuring all the opinions that 
have been put forward, on this obscure sub- 
ject, one ought to prove some theory of one's 
own. I will therefore proceed to explain what 
I think to be the reason of the Nile's swelling 
in the summer time. During the winter the 
sun is driven out of his usual course by the 
storms, and removes to the upper parts of 
Libya. This is the whole secret in the fewest 
possible words ; for it stands to reason that the 
country whicli the Sun-god approaches the 
nearest and which lie passes most directly over, 
will be scantest of water, and that there the 
streams which feed the river will shrink the 

To explain, however, more at length, the 
case is this : The sun in his passage across 
the U{)per parts of Libya, affects them in the 
following way : As the air in those regions is 
constantly clear, and the country warm through 
the absence of cold winds, the sun in his pass- 
age across them acts upon them exactly as he 
is wont to act elsewhere in summer, when his 
path is in the middle of heaven — that is, he 
attracts the water. After attracting it, ho 
again rciix'ls it into the upper regions, where 
the winds lay liold of it, scatter it, and reduce 
it to a vapor, wlience it naturally enougli comes 
to pass that winds whicih blow from this ([uarter 
— tli(' south and southwest — are of all winds 
the most rainy. And my own opinion is that 
the Him docs not get rid of all the water which 
lie draws year by year from the Nile, but re- 



tains some al)out him. Whoii tho wintor 
begins to soften, the; sun goes back again to 
his old place in the iiiicMle of the lieaAeii, ami 
proceeds to attract water ('(jnally from ail 
countries. Till then the otlnu- rivers run big 
from the quantity of rain-water which tliey 
bring down from countries wliere so such mois- 
ture falls that all the land is cut into gullies ; 
but in summer, when the showers fail, aiul the 
sun attracts their water, they become low. 
The Nile, on the contrary, not deriving an^'^ 
of its bulk from rains, and being in the winter 
subject to the attraction of the sun, naturally'' 
runs at that season, unlike all other streams, 
with a less burthen of water than in the sum- 
mer ti^ne. For in summer it is exposed to 
attraction equally with all other rivers, but in 
winter it suffers alone. 

It is the sua also, in my opinion, which by 
heating the space through which it passes, 
makes the air of Egypt so dry. There is 
thus perpetual summer in the upper parts of 
Libya. AVere the positi(m of the heavenly 
bodies reversed, so that the place where now 
the north wind and the winter have their 
dwelling became the station of the south wind 
and of the noon-day, while on the other hand 
the station of the south wind became that of 
the north, the conseipience would be that the 
sun, driven from the mid-heaven by the winter 
and the northern gales, would betake himself to 
the upper parts of Europe, as he now does to 
those of Libya, and then I believe his passage 
across Europe would affect the Ister exactly as 
the Nile is affected at the present day. And 
with respect to the fact that no breeze blows 
from the Nile, lam of opinion that no wind is 
likely to arise in very liot countries, forbi'eezes 
love to blow from some cold quarter. 


The course of the Nib; is known, not only 
throughout Egypt, but to the extent of four 

8 33 


months' journey either by land or water above 
the Egyptian boundary ; for on calculation it 
will be found that it takes that length of time 
to travel from Elephantine to the country of 
the " Deserters." There the direction of the 
river is from west to east. Beyond, no one has 
any certain knowledge of its course, since the 
country is uninhabited by reason of the ex- 
cessive heat. 

I did hear, indeed, what I will now relate, 
from certain natives of Cyrene. Once upon a 
time, they said, they were on a visit to the 
oracular shrine of Ammon, when it chanced 
that in the course of couvei'sation with Etear- 
chus, the Ammonian king, the talk fell upon 
the Nile, how that its sources were unknown 
to all men. Etearchus upon this mentioned 
that some Nasimonians had come over to his 
court, and when asked if they could give any 
information concerning the uninhabited jjarts, 
of Libya, had told the following tale. (The 
Nasimonians are a Libyan race who occupy the 
Syrtis and a tract of no great size towards the 

They said there had grown up among thorn 
some wild young men, the sons of certain 
chiefs, who, when they came to man's estate, 
indulged in all manner of extravagances, and 
among other things drew lots for five of their 
number to go and explore the desert parts of 
Libya, and try if they could not penetrate 
further tlian any had done previously. The 
coast of Libya along the sea which washes it to 
the north, thrDUghout its entire length from 
Egypt to Cape Suloris, which is its furtliest, 
is inhabited by Libyans of many distinct 
tribes, who possess the whole tract except 
certain portions wliich belong to the IMio-ni- 
cians and tlie Greeks. Above the coast-line 
and tlie country inhabite<l by Uw. maritime 
tril>es, Libya is full of wild-beasts; while be- 
yond the wild-boast region thert; is a tract 
which is wholly sand, very scant of water, 
and utterly and entirely a desert. 



The young men tlKTofuro (lispatcliO(l on tins 
errand hy their coinriuh'.s with ;i phMitifuI sup- 
ply (tf water an<l provisions, tra\'eie<l at first 
through the inliul)ite(l region, ])assing which 
they oain(! to tlie wild-heast tract, whence they 
finally entered upon the desert, whic^li they 
proceeded to cross in a direction from east to 
west. After journeying for many days over a 
wide extent of sands they came at last to a 
plain where they observed trees growing; aj)- 
proaching them, and seeing fruit on them, they 
proceeded to gather it. While they were thus 
engaged, there came upon them some dwarfish 
men, under the middle height, who seized them 
and carried them ol¥. The Nasimonians could 
not understand a woi-d of their language, nor 
had they any acipuiintance with the language 
of the Xasimonians. They were led across 
extensive marshes, and finally came to a town 
where all thi; men were of th<; height of their 
conductors, aiul black-com])lexioned. A great 
river fiowed by the town, running from west to 
east, and containing crocodiles. Here let me 
dismiss Etearchus the Ammonian, and his 
story, onl}' adding that (according to the Cy- 
renteans) he declared that the Nasimonians got 
safe back to the country, and that the men 
whose city they had reached were sorcerers. 

With respect to the river which ran by their 
town, Etearchus conjectured it to be the Nile ; 
and reason favors that view. For the Nile 
certainly flows out of Libya, dividing it down 
the middle, and as I conceive — judging the un- 
known from the known — rises at the same dis- 
tance from its mouth as the Ister. The latter 
river has its source in the country of the Celts 
near the city Pyrene, and runs through the 
middle of Europe, dividing it into two portions. 
The Celts live beyond the Pillars of Hercules, 
and border on the Cynesians, who dwell at the 
extreme west of Europe. Thus the latter flows 
through the whole of Europe before it finally 
empties itself into the Euxiue at Istria, one of 



the colonies of tlie Milesiiins. Now as this 
river flows through regions tliat are inhabited, 
its course is perfectly well known ; but of the 
sources of the Nile no one can give any account, 
since Libya, the country through which it 
passes, is desert and without inhabitants. As 
far as it was possible to get information by in- 
quiry, I have given a description of the stream. 
It enters Egypt from the parts beyond. Egyj^t 
lies almost exactly opposite the mountainous 
region of Cilicia, whence a lightly equipped 
traveler may reach Sinope on tlie Euxine in 
five days by tlie direct route. Sinope lies op- 
posite the place where the Ister falls into the 
sea. My opinion therefore is that the Nile as 
it traverses the whole of Libya, is of equal 
length with the Ister. And here I take my 
leave of this subject. 

Herodotus wrote more than twenty-two 
centuries ago. Up to about the middle of 
the present century nothing was known as 
to the course of the Nile beyond what was 
narrated by Herodotus ; for the supposed 
discovery hj James Bruce, near the close 
of the last century, of the source of the 
Nile in the mountain region of Abyssinia, 
though true as a matter of fact, was act- 
ually misleading. He discovered, indeed, 
the origin of the so-called " Blue River," 
that ailluent wliicli, after the rainy season, 
su])plies the wat(H- wliich constitutes the 
" rising of the Nile ; but during tlie remain- 
ing nine montiis of the year ])resents liardly 
more than a dry river-bed. Of the far 
more important alHuent, known as " the 
White River," fed by the great Nyanzas, 
whose waters constitute tlie Nile for three 
quarters of the year, neither Herodotus, 
noi' any otlier man for more than two 
tliousand years, ever dreanu'd. Tlie " oj)en 
secret" of the Nile remained for our own 
generation tQ discover. 

llKKolXCrUS.— 9 


Tho followiiit; ai'(^ tlio pi'culiiiritics of the 
crocudiK'. J)uriii}^ tlu; four winter months they 
I'lit nothing'. They uru four-footed, and livu 
indifferently on hind or in tlie water. The 
feinah^ hiys and hatclies her eggs asliore, pass- 
ing the greater portion of the day on dryland, 
but at night retiring to the river, the water of 
which is warmer than the niglit-air and the 
dew. Of all known animals this is the one 
which from the smallest size grows to be the 
greatest; for tlie egg of the crocodile is but 
little bigger than that of the goose, and the 
young crocodile is in proportion to the egg; 
yet vv'hen it is full-grown the animal measui'es 
frecjuently seventeen cubits, and even more. 
It lias the eyes of a pig, teeth large and tusk- 
like, of a size pro])ortioned to its frame. Un- 
like any other animal, it is without a tongue. 
It cannot move its under jaw, and in this re- 
sjject too it is singular, being the only animal 
in the world which moves its upper jaw, and 
not the under. It has strong claws and a scaly 
skin, impenetrable ujjon the back. In the 
water it is blind, but on the land it is very keen 
of sight. As it lives chiefly in the river, it 
has the inside of its mouth constantly covered 
with leeches; hence it happens that while all 
the other birds and beasts avoid it, with the 
trochilus it lives at peace, since it owes much 
to that bird ; for the crocodile, when he leaves 
the water and comes upon the land, is in the 
habit of lying with his mouth wide open, facing 
the western breeze ; at such times the trochil- 
us goes into his mouth and devours the leeches. 
This benefits the crocodile, who is pleased, and 
takes care not to hurt the trochilus. . . . 

The modes of catching the crocodile are 
many and various. I sliall only describe the 
one which seems to me most worthy of men- 
tion. They bait a hook with a chijie of j»ork. 
and let the meat be carried out into the middle 
of the stream, while the hunter upon the bank 



holds a living pig, which he belabors. The 
crocodile hears its cries, and making for the 
sound, encounters the pork, Avhich he instantly 
swallows down. The men on the shore haul, 
and when they have got him to land, the first 
thing the hunter does is to plaster his eyes 
with mud. This once accomplished, the ani- 
mal is despatched with ease ; otherwise he 
gives much trouble. 


They have also another sacred bird called 
the phtenix, which I mj^self have never seen 
exce2)t in pictures. Indeed it is a great rarity 
even in Egypt, only coming there, (according 
to accounts of the people of Heliopolis), once 
in five hundred years, when the old plujonix 
dies. Its size and api^earance — if it is like the 
pictures — is as follows : The plumage is ])artly 
red, partly golden, while the general make and 
size are almost exactly that of tlie eagle. They 
tell a story of what this bird does, which does 
not seem to me to be credible : that he comes 
all the wa}^ from Arabia, and brings the parent 
bird, all ])lastered with myrrh, to the temple bf 
the sun, and there buries the body. In order 
to bring him, they say, he first forms a ball of 
myrrh as big as he finds that lie can carry ; 
then he hollows out the ball, and puts his par- 
ent inside ; after wliich he covers over the 
opening with fresh myrrh, and the ball is then 
of exactly the same weight as at first ; so lie 
brings it to Egypt, plastered over as I have 
said, and dej)osits it in the temple of the sun. 
►Such is the story they tell of the doings of 
this l)ird. 


There are a set of men in Egy]it wbo prac- 
tice the art of embalming, and make it their 
proper business. Tliese persons, wben a body 
is brought to them, show tlu^ bearers various 
models of corpses, made in wood, and j)ainted 
80 as to reseml)h^ nature. The most perfect 


is said to bo uftcr tlii^ niamior of Kim wlioiu I 
do not think it nslijjjioiis to nann^ in connection 
with such a matter; the second is inferior to 
the first, and Iciss costly' ; the third is the 
cheapest of all. All this the embalmers ex- 
plain, and thou ask in which way it is wished 
that the corpse should he jtreparod. The 
bearers tell them, and having concluded their 
bargain, take their departure, while the em- 
balmers, left to themselves, proceed to their 

The mode of embalming, according to 
the most perfect process, is the following: 
They take iirst a crooked piece of iron, and 
with it draw out the brain through the iios- 
trils,'thus getting rid of a portion, wliile the 
skull is cleared of the rest by rinsing with 
drugs. Next, they make a cut along the flank, 
with a sharp Ethiopian stone, and take out 
the whole contents of the abdomen, which they 
then cleanse, wasbing it thoroughly' with })alm- 
wine, and again frequently with an infusion of 
pounded aromatics. After this they fill the 
cavity with the purest bruised myrrh, with 
cassia and every sort of spicery, except frank- 
incense, and sew up the opening. Then the 
body is placed in uatrum for seventy days, and 
covered entirely over. After the expiration of 
that space of time, which must not be exceed- 
ed, the b(Kly is washed, and wrai)ped round 
from head to foot with bandages of fine linen 
clotli, smeared over with gum, which is used 
generally by the Egyptians in the place of 
glue ; and in tliis state it is given back to the 
relations, who enclose it in a wooden case 
which they have made for the ])urpose, sliaped 
into the figure of a man. Then fastening tlu; 
case, they place it in a sepulchral chamber, up- 
right against the wall. 8uch is the most 
-costly way of embalming tlio dead. 

If persons wish to avoid expense, and choose 
the second process, the following is the method 
pursued: Syringes are filled with oil made 



from the cedar-tree, which is then, without any 
incision or disemboweling, injected into the 
abdomen. The passage by which it might be 
likely to return is stopped, and the body laid 
in natrum the prescribed number of days. At 
the end of the time the cedar-oil is allowed to 
make its escape ; and si;ch is its power that it 
brings with it the whole stomach and intestines 
in a liqnid state. The natrum meanwhile has 
dissolved the flesh, and so nothing is left of the 
dead body but the skin and the bones. It is 
returned in this condition to the relatives, 
without any further trouble being bestowed 
upon it. 

The third method of embalming, which is 
practiced in the case of the poorer classes, is to 
clean out the intestines with a clyster, and let 
the body lie in the natrum the seventy days, 
after which it is at once given to those wlio 
come to fetch it away. 

In Egypt Herodotus heard a version of 
the siege of Troy, differing in some par- 
ticulars from that narrated in tlie Iliad. 
According to this Egyptian version, Paris 
(whom Herodotus calls Alexander) took 
his departure from Sparta with the frail 
Helen and the immense treasures which 
he had stolen from Menelaus. He headed 
for Ilium, but was driven by contrary 
winds upon the Egyptian coast. Proteus, 
the Egyptian king, liaving been informed 
of the perfidity of Paris, allowed him to 
take his departure for his own country, 
but detained Helen and the stolen treas- 
ures to be delivered up to Menelaus, when 
h(! sliould come to clann tluMU, wliich he 
did after llie destruction of Ilium. Herod- 
otus thus ])roceeds: 


I made in(juiry of the ]>riests, whether the 
story which tlie Greeks tell abmit Ilium is a 


fiiMe or no. Jn rc|.l3' they ivlatcil the follow- 
ing particuhu-s, of which they dechired that 
MeiK'lau.s liad himself infonned them: 

After the rape of Jleleii, a vast army of 
Greeks, Avishiiig to render help to IMeuelaus, 
set sail for the Teiicriau territory. On their 
arrival they disembarked, and formed tlieir 
eamj), after which tliey sent ambassadors to 
Ilium, of whom Menelaus was one. The em- 
bassy was received within the walls, and de- 
manded the restoration of Helen, witli the treas- 
ures whieh Alexander had carried off, and like- 
wise demanded satisfaction for the wrong done. 
The Tencrians gave at once the answer in which 
t^'^y^ persisted ever afterwards, backing their 
assertions sometimes even with oaths, to wit, 
that neither Helen nor the treasures claimed 
were in their possession: both the one and the 
other had remained, they said, in Egypt ; and 
it was not just to come upon them for what 
Proteus, king of Egypt, was detaining. The 
Greeks, imagining that the Teucrians were 
merely laughing at them, laid siege to the 
town, and never rested until they finally took it. 
So Menelaus traveled to Egypt, and on his 
arrival sailed up the river as far as IMemphis, 
and related all that had happened. He met 
with the utmost hospitality, received back 
Helen unharmed, and recovered all his treas- 
sures. After this friendly treatment Menelaus, 
thej' said, behaved most unjustly towards the 
Egyptians; for as it happened that at the time 
when he wanted to take his departure, he was 
detained l)y the wiinl being contrary, and as 
he found this obstruction continue, he had re- 
course to a most wicked expedient. He seized, 
they said, tw^o children of the people of the 
country, and offered them up in sacrifice. 
When this became known, the indignation of 
the people was stirred, and they wx'nt in pur- 
suit of Menelaus, who, however, escaped with 
his slnj)s to Libya, after which the Egyptians 
could not say whither he went. The rest they 


knew full well, partly by the inquiries which 
they had made, and partly from the circum- 
stances having taken place in their own land, 
and therefore not admitting of doubt. 

Such is the account given by the Egyptian 
priests, and I am inclined to regard as true all 
that they say of Helen, from the following con- 
siderations : If Helen had been at Troy, the 
inhabitants would, 1 think, have given her up 
to the Greeks, whether Alexander consented to 
it or no. For surely neither Priam nor his 
family, could have been so infatuated as to en- 
danger their own persons, their children and 
their city, merely that Alexander might possess 
Helen. At any rate, if they determined to re- 
fuse at first, yet afterwards, when so many of 
the Trojans fell on every encounter with the 
Greeks, and Priam too in each battle lost a son, 
sometimes two or three, and even more, if we 
may credit the epic poets, I do not believe that 
even if Priam himself had been married to her, 
he would have declined to deliver her uj), with 
the view of bringing the series of calamities to 
a close. Nor was it as if Alexander had been 
heir to the crown, in which case he might have 
had the chief management of affairs, since 
Priam was already old. Hector, who was his 
elder brother, and a far braver man, stood be- 
fore him, and was the heir to the kingdom on 
the death of their father Priam. And it could 
not be Hector's interest to ui)hn]d his lirother 
in his wrong when it brought such dire ca- 
lamities upon himself and the other Trojans. 
But the fact was that they had no Helen to de- 
liver, and so they told the Greeks ; but the Gi'eeks 
would not believe what they said — J)ivine 
Providence, as I think, so willing tbat by tlieir 
utter destruction it might be made evident to 
all men tliat when gri'at wrongs are done, the 
gods will surely visit tlieni with great punisli- 
ments. Sucli, at least, is my view of the matter. 


When Proteus died, Rhampsinitus, so the 


priests informed me, succeotled to tlie throne. 
His monuments were the western gateway of 
the temple of Vulcan, and the two statues wliich 
stand in front of this gateway, called by the 
Egyptians the one Summer, the other Winter, 
each twenty-five cubits in height. The statue of 
Summer, which is the nortliernmost of the 
two, is worshiped by tlic natives, and has offer- 
ings made to it; that of Winter, which stands 
towards tlie south is treated in precisely the 
contrary way. King J{ham])sinitus was pos- 
sessed, they said, of great riches in silv^er; in- 
deed to such an amount that none of the 
princes, his successors, surpassed or even 

equalled his wealth 

This same king, I was also informed by the 
priests, descended alive into the region Avhich 
the Greeks call Hades, and there played at 
dice with Ceres, sometimes winning and some- 
times suffering defeat. After a while he re- 
turned to earth, and brought with him a golden 
napkin, the gift of the goddess. From this de- 
scent of Rhampsinitus into Hades, and return 
to earth again, the Egyptians, 1 was told, in- 
stituted a festival, which they certainly cele- 
brated in my day. On what occasion it was 
that they instituted it— whether upon this 
or upon any other — I cannot determine. The 
following ai'e the ceremonies : On a certain 
day in the year the priests weave a mantle, 
and binding the eyes of one of their number 
with a fillet, the}'- put the mantle upon him, and 
t;ik(^ liim with them into the roadway conduct- 
ing to the temple of Ceres, when they depart 
and leave him to himself. Then the jjriest, 
thus blindfolded, is led (they say) by two 
wolves to the temple of Ceres, distant twenty 
furlongs from the city, w^here lit; stays a while, 
after which he is brought back from the temple 
by the wolves, and left uiton the spot where 
they first joined him. 


Such as think the tales of the Egyptians 



credible are free to accept tliem for history. 
For my own part, I propose to myself through- 
out my whole work faitlifully to record the 
traditions of the several nations. The Egyp- 
tians maintain that Ceres and Bacchus preside 
in the realms below. They were also the tirst 
to broach the opinion that the soul of man is 
immortal, and tliat when the body dies, it 
enters into the form of an animal which is born 
at the moment, thence passing on from one 
animal into an other until it has circled through 
the forms of all the creatures which tenant the 
earth, the water, and the air ; after which it 
enters again into a human frame, and is born 
anew. The whole period of the transmigration 
is (they say) three thousand years. There are 
Greek writers — some of an earlier, some of a 
later date — who have borrowed this doctrine 
from the Egyptians, and put it forward as 
their own. I could mention their names, but 
I abstain from doing so. 


About the time when Cambyses arrived at 
Memphis, from his unsuccessful expedition 
against the Ethiopians, Apis ap])ear(_'d to the 
Eg3'ptians. Now Apis is the god wliom the 
Greeks call Epaplias. As soon as he ap- 
peared, straightway all the Egyptians ar- 
rayed themselves in tlicir gayest garments, 
and fell to feasting and jollity ; which when 
Cambyses saw, making sure that these re- 
joicings were on account of his own ill suc- 
cess, lie called before liim the officers who 
had charge of Memphis, and demanded of 
tliem why, when lie was at Meinjihis before, 
tile Egyjitians liad done nothing of this kind, 
but waiti'd until now, wlicii he had returned 
with the loss of so many of his troops? The 
officers made answer, that one of their gods 
liad a|>p(';inMl to them — a god wlio at long 
iiili'ivals of tim(> had bt'cii accustomed to 
.slinu himself ill l'ig\'[)t ; atid fb;il always on 



his appearanco, the whole of Kf:;ypt feasted 
and kept jubih-c Wlien (^unljyscs heard 
this, he told them tliiit tlicy lied, and as liars 
he coiidemiH'd thein all to <leath. 

When they were dead he called the priests 
to liis presence, and qnestioiiiiig them re- 
ceived the same answer ; whereupon he ob- 
served, *'' That he would soon know whether 
a tame god had really come to dwell in 
Egypt ; " and straightway, without another 
word, he bade them bring Apis to* him. So 
they went out from his presence to fetch the 
god. Now this Apis, or Epaphus, is the calf 
of a cow which is never afterwards able to 
bear young. The Egyptians say that fire 
comes down from heaven upon the cow, which 
thereupon conceives Apis. The calf which is 
so called has the following marks: He is black, 
with a square spot of white upon his forehead, 
and on his back the figure of an eagle ; the 
hairs upon his tail are double, and there is a 
beetle upon his tongue. 

Wlien the priests returned, bringing Apis 
with them, Cambyses, like the hare-brained 
person that he was, drew his dagger, and 
aimed at the belly of the animal, but missed 
his mark, and stabbed him in tlic thigh. 
Then he laughed, and said to the priests : 
*' Oh ! blockheads, and think ye that the gods 
become like this, of flesh and blood, and sensi- 
ble to steel ? A fit god indeed for Egyptians, 
such an one ! But it shall cost you dear that 
you have made me your laughing-stock!" 
When he had so spoken, lie ordered those 
whose business it was, to scourge tluf priests, 
and if they found any of the Egyptians keep- 
ing festival, to put them to death. Thus was 
the feast stopped throughout the land of 
Egypt, and the j)riests suffered punishment. 

Apis, wounded in the thigh, lay some time 
pining in the temple ; at last he died of his 
wound, and the priests buried him secretly 
witht)ut the knowledge of Cambyses. And 



now Cambyses, who even before had not been 
quite in his right mind, was forthwith, as the 
Egyptians say, smitten with madness for this 


The first of his outrages was the slaying of 
Smerdis his full brother, whom he had sent 
back to Persia from Eg\'pt out of envy because 
he drew the bow brought from the Ethio- 
pians by t|ie Icthyophagi, which none of the 
other Persians were able to bend the distance 
of two fingers' breadth. When Smerdis was 
departed into Persia, Cambyses had a vision 
in his sleep : he thought a messenger from 
• Persia came to him with tidings that Smerdis 
sat upon the royal throne, and with his head 
touched the heavens. Fearing therefore for 
himself, and thinking it likely that his brother 
would kill him and rule in his stead, Cam- 
byses sent Prexaspes, whom he trusted be- 
yond all the other Persians, bidding him put 
Smerdis to death. So this Prexaspes went up 
to Susa, and slew Smerdis. Some say he 
killed him as they hunted togetlier ; others 
that he took him down to the Erythrseau 
Sea, and there drowned him. 


This, it is said, was the first outrage which 
Cambyses committed. The second was the 
slaying of his sister, who had accompanied 
him into Egypt, and lived witli him as his 
wife, though she was his full sister, the 
daughter botli of his father and his mother. 
Th(^ way wht;rein he had made lier his wife 
was the following: It was not the custom of 
the Persians before liis time to marry tlieir 
sisters ; but (/ambyst^s hapjx'iiing to f;ill in 
love with one of his, and wisliiug to take her 
to wife, as he knew that it was an uncommon 
thing, called togetlier the royal judges, and 
put it to tliem '' wheth(!r there was any law 
which allowed a brother if he wished, to 


marry his sister?" Now the royal judges 
are certain picked men among the I'ersians 
who hoM tlicir office for life, or until they 
are found guilty of some misconiluct. By 
them justice is administered in Persia, and 
they are the interpreters of the old laws, 
all disputes being referred to their decision. 
When Camhyses, therefore, put his question 
to these judges, they gave him an answer 
which was at once true and safe : " They did 
not iind any law," they said, " allowing a 
brother to take his sister to wife ; but they 
found a law that the king might do whatever 
he pleased." And so they neither warped the 
law through fear of Cambyses, nor ruined 
themselves b}- over-stiffly maintaining the 
law ; but they brought another quite distinct 
law to the king's help, which allowed him to 
have his wish. Cambyses therefore married 
the object of his love, and no long time after- 
wards he took to wife another sister. It was 
the younger of these who went with him to 
Egypt and there suffered death at his hands. 

Concerning the manner of her death, as con- 
cerning that of 8merdis, two different accounts 
are given. . . . The Egyptians tell the story 
thus: The two were sitting at table, when the 
sister took a lettuce, and stripping off the 
leaves asked her brother when he thought the 
lettuce looked the prettiest — when it had its 
leaves on, or now that it was stripped ; he an- 
swered. " When the leaves were on." " But 
thou," she rejoined, " hast done as I did to 
the lettuce, and made bare the house of Cyrus." 
Then Cambyses was wroth, and si)rang fiercely 
upon her, though she was with child at the 
time. And so it came to pass that she mis- 
carried and died. 

Thus mad was Cambyses upon his own 
kindred, and this either from his usage of spies 
or from some other among the many causes 
from which calamities are wont to arise. They 
say that from his birth he was afflicted with a 



dreadful disease — the disorder wliicli some call 
the " sacred sickness." It would he hy uo 
means strange, therefore, if his mind were 
affected in some degree, seeing that his body 
labored under so sore a malady. 


He was mad also upon others besides his 
kindred : among the rest upon Prexaspes, the 
man whom he esteemed beyond the rest of all 
the Persians, who carried his messages, and 
whose son held the office — an honor of no small 
account among the Persians — of his cupbearer. 
Him Cambyses is said to have once addressed 
as follows : " \Vhat sort of a man, Prexas})es, 
do the Persians think me ? What do they 
say of me ? " Prexaspes answered, *' Oh ! 
Sire, they praise thee greatly in all things 
but one — they say that thou art too much 
given to the love of wine." Whereupon ('am- 
byses, full of rage, made answer : " What ! 
they say now that I drink too much wine, and 
have lost my senses, and am gone out of my 
mind! Then theirformer speeches about nu; 
were untrue." For once when the Persians 
were sitting with him and Croesus was by, Iib 
liad asked them, " What sort of a man they 
thought him compared to his father, Cyi'us ? '" 
Hereon they had answered, '' that he sur- 
passed his father, for he was lord of all that his 
father ever ruled, ami further, had made liim- 
self master of Egypt and the sea. Then Crcesus, 
who was standing near, and misliked the com- 
])aris()Ti, spolie thus to Cambyses : " In my 
judgment, O soji of Cyrus, thou art not eipial 
to thy father, for thou hast not left behind thee 
sm'h a snii as lie." Cambyses was delighted 
when he heard tliis reply, and praised the 
judgment of Cni\sus. 

Kecollecting these answers, Cambyses sj)oke 
fier<-ely to I'rexaspes, saying : " Judge now 
thyself, Prexasjies, whether the Persians tell 
the truth, or whether it is jiot they who arc 
mad for speaking as they do. Look there now 


at thy son standing in tlie Vf.stiljuli — if T shoot 
jiuJ liit liini riglit in tlie niidtlle of tlie ht^art, 
it would be phiiii tliat tlic rt-rsians liavi; no 
grounds for wliat thc-y say; if I miss liini, 
then I allow that the I'orsians arc right, and 
that I am out of my mind." So speaking he 
drew his bow to the full, and struck the boy, 
who straightway fell down dead. Then Cam- 
byses ordered the body to be opened, and the 
wound examined ; and when the arrow was 
found to have entered the heart, the king was 
<iuitc overjoyed, and said to the father with a 
laugh: "\Now tliou seest plainly, Prexaspes, 
that it is not I who am mad, but the Persians 
who have lost their scMises. I pray thee, tell 
me sawest thou ever mortal man send an 
arrow with a better aim ? " Prexaspes, seeing 
that the king was not in his right mind, and 
fearing for himself, replied : " Oh ! my lord, I 
do not think that God himself could shoot so 


Such was the outrage which Cambyses com- 
mitted at this time. At another, he took 
twelve of the noblest Persians, and without 
bringing any charge worthy of death against 
them, buried them all up to the neck. Here- 
upon Crffisus, the Lydian, thought it right to 
admonish Cambyses, which he did in these 
words following: ''Oh! King, allow not thy- 
self to give way entirely to thy youth and the 
heat of thy temper ; but check and control 
thyself. It is well to look to conseipiences, 
and in forethought lies true wisdom. Thou 
layst hold of men, who are thy fellow-cit- 
izens, and without cause of complaint slayest 
them ; thou even })uttest children to death. 
Bethink thee now, if thou shalt often do things 
like these, will not the Persians rise in revolt 
against thee '! It is by thy father's wish that 
I offer thee advice. He charged me strictly 
to give thee such counsel as I might see to be 
most for thy good.*" In thus advising Cam- 

4 49 


byses, Crresus meant nothing hut what was 
friendly ; but Cauihyses answered him, '• Dost 
thou presume to offer me advice ? Eight well 
thou thy own country when thou wert 
a king; and right sage advice thou gavest my 
father, Cyrus, bidding him cross the Araxes and 
tight the Massageta^ in their own land, when 
they were willing to have passed over into 
ours. By thy misdirection of thine own af- 
fairs thou broughtest ruin upon thyself ; and 
b}- ihy bad counsel, which he followed, thou 
broughtest ruin upon Cyrus, m}^ father. But 
thou shalt not escape punishment now, for I 
have long been seeking to find some occasion 
against thee." 

As he thus spoke, Cambyses took up his bow 
to shoot at Crcesus ; but Croesus ran hastily 
out and escaped. So when Cambyses found 
that he could not kill him with his bow, he 
bade his servants seize him and put him to 
death. Tlie servants, however, who knew their 
master's humor, thought it best to hide Croesus ; 
that so, if Caml.iyses relented, and asked for him, 
they might bring him out, and get a reward 
for having saved his life; if, on the other hand, 
he did not relent or regret the loss, they might 
then dispatch him. Not long afterwards Cam- 
byses did in fact relent the loss of Croesus, and 
the servants perceiving it, let him know that 
he was still alive. " I am glad," said he, 
''that Croesus lives; but as for you who saved 
him, ye shall not escape my vengeance, but 
shall all of you 1»(^ put to death." And he did 
even as he had said. 


The manner in which the Arabians collect 
the cassia is the following; they cover all their 
body and their faces with the liides of oxen 
and other skins, leaving only holes for the 
eyes; and thus protected go in search of the 
cassia, whi(;h grows in a lake of no great depth. 
All round the shores and in the lake itself 


there dwell a miinbor of winged animals, 
much resemlding bats, which scrccclx lionibly 
and are veiy valiant. Those creatures they 
must kev\} fntm tlioir eyes all the while that 
they gather tlie cassiii. 

Still more woncUuful is the ]n(i(h' in whicli 
they collect the cinnamon. Where the wood 
grows, and what country produces it, they 
cannot tell ; oidy some, following probability, 
relate that it comes from the countr}'^ in which 
Bacchus was brought uj). (xreat birds, they 
say, bring the sticks which we (Ireeks, taking 
tlie word from the rh(enk-,ians, call cinnmnon, 
and carry them up into the air to make their 
nests. These are fastened with a sort of mud 
to af^heer face of rock, where no foot of man 
is able to climb. 80 the Arabians, to get the 
cinnamon, use the following-artifice: They cut 
all the oxen and asses and beasts of burden 
that die in their land into large pieces, which 
they carry with them into those regions, and 
place near the nests. Then they withdraw to 
a distance, and the old birds, swooping down, 
sieze the pieces of meat and tly with them up 
to their nests ; which, not being able to support 
the weight, break off and fall to the ground. 
Hereupon the Arabians return and collect the 
cinnamon, which is afterwards carried from 
Arabia into other countries. 

Ledannm, wliich the Arabians call ludannm, 
is procured in a yet stranger fashion. Found 
in a most inodorous place, it is the sweetest- 
scented of all substances. It is gathered from 
the beards of he-goats, where it is found stick- 
ing like gum, having come from the bushes on 
which they browse. It is used in many sorts 
of unguent, and is what the Arabians chiefly 
burn as incense. Concerning the spices of 
Arabia, let no more be said. TMie whole coun- 
try is scented with them, and exhales an odor 
marvelously sweet. 



HERRERA, Fernando de, a Spanish 
ecclesiastic and poet, born in 1534 ; died 
in 1597. Little is known of his life ; but 
he was called the Divine, and was praised 
by Cervantes and Lope de Vega. He pub- 
lished a volume of poems in 1582, and 
others of his poems appeared after his 
death. He wrote vigorous prose also. His 
chief work is the lielacion de la Gruerra de 
Chipre y Batalla de Lepanto (1572.) An- 
other work, the History of Spain till the 
Time of Charles V. is not extant. A num- 
ber of his longer poems are lost, among 
them The Battle of the Giants, The Rape 
of Proserpina, The Amadis, and The Loves 
of Laiirino and Caerona. 


Sweet Sleep, that tln-ough the starry path of 

With dewy poppies crowned, pursu'st thy 

flight ! 
Stiller of human woes, 

That shedd'st o'er Nature's breast a soft repose ! 
O, to these distant climates of the West 
Thy slowly waiidering pinious turn ; 
And with thy intluence blest 
Bathe these love-burdened eyes, that ever burn 
And lind ho moment's I'est, 
Wbile my unceasing grief 
Refuses all relief ! 

(), hear my prayer ! I ask it by thy love, 
AVliom Juno gave thee in tbe realms above. 
Sweet power tbat dost ini])art 
(rentle oblivion to the suffering heart, 
lieloved Sleep, tliou only canst bestow 
A solace for my woe ! 
Thrice hapjjy be i\w liour 

My weary limbs shall feci tb}' sovereign ]>ower ! 
Wby to ibese eyt\s aloii»> deny 
Tlic i-;ibii tlmu piiur'st on Nature's boundless 

nigi, •.' 


Why let thy vot:iry :ill iicgh^cted die, 
Nor yield a re.spite to a lover's pain ? 
And must I ask thy haliny aid in vain ? 
Hear, gentle power, O, hear my humble prayer, 
And let my soul thy heavenly banquet share ! 

In this extreme of grief, I own thy might. 

DcsiH-nd, and shed tliy healing dew ; 

DcsciMid, and put to flight 

The intruding Dawn, tliat with her gairish light 

My sorruws would renew ! 

Thou hear'st my sad lament, and in my face 

My nuxny griefs may'st trace : 

Turn, then, sweet wanderer of the night, and 

Thy wings arouiul my head ! 
llaste, for the unwelcome Morn 
Is now on her return ! 
Let the soft rest the hours of night denied 
Be by thy lenient hand supplied. 

Fresh from my summer bowers, 
A crowTi of soothing tiowers. 
Such as thou lov'st, the fairest and the best, 
I offer thee ; won by their odors sweet, 
The enamored air shall greet 
Thy advent : O, then, let thy hand 
Express their essence bland, 
And o'er ray eyelids pour delicious rest ! 
Enchanting power, soft as tlie breath of spring 
J^e the light gale that stirs thy dewy wing ! 
Come, ere the sun ascends the purph^ east — 
Come, end my woes ! 80, crowned with heaven- 
ly charms. 
May fair Pasithea take thee to lier arms ! 

Trajisl. o/T. lloscoE. 


When from the vaulted sky, 
Struck by the bolt and volleyed fire of Jove, 
Enceladus, wdio proiully strove 
To rear to heaven his impious head. 
Fell headlong upon P^tna's rocky bed; 
And she, who long had boldly stood 


Against tlie powers on high, 

By thousand deaths undaunted, unsubdued — 

Kebellious Earth — her fury spent, 

Before the sword of Mars unwilling hent. 

In heaven's pure serene, 

To his bright lyre, whose strings melodious 

Unsliorn Apollo sweetly sung. 
And spread the joyous numbers round — 
His3'outhful brows with gold and laurel bound- 
Listening the sweet, immortal strain. 
Each heavenly power was seen ; 
And all the lucid spheres, night's wakeful 

That swift pursue their ceaseless way. 
Forgot their course, suspended bj' his lay. 

Hushed was the stormy sea — 

At the sweet sound the boisterous waves were 

The noise of rushing winds was stayed ; 
Aud with the gentle breath of pleasure 
The Muses sung, according with his measure. 
In wildest strains of rapture lost, 
He sung the victory. 

The power and glory of the heavenly host ; 
The horrid mien and warlike mood, 
Tlu! fatal pride of the Titanian brood: 
Of I'allas, Attic maid. 
The Gorgon terrors and the fiery spear ; 
Of him, whose voice the billows fear, 
The valor proved in deadly light ; 
Of Hercules the strength and vtMigeful might, 
lint long he praised thy dauntless lieart. 
And sweetest prelude made, 
Singing, Bistonian Mars, thy force and art ; 
'i'hine arm victorious, which o'erthrew 
The liercost of the bold Phlegrean crew. 

Trantil. (j/'Hkkbkrt. 



HERRICK, RoKEUT, ail Eii.t^^lish clorcry- 
man and ]>oet, born iu lol»l ; died in 1(;74. 
Ho studied at (^andn-idge, and after leaving 
the University led a jovial life in Loiidon 
for several years. Among Ids associates 
was Ben Joiison, to whom — or, ratiier, to 
his departed Shade— he addressed the 
following lines : 


Ah Ben ! 
Say how or when 
Sliull we, thy guests, 
Meet at those lyric feasts 
Made at the Sun, 
The Dog, tlie Triple Tun ; 
AVhere we such clusters liad 
As niude us nol)ly wild, not mad ? 
And yet each verse of thine 
Outdid tlie meat, outdid the frolic wine. 

My B 


Or come again, 
Or send to us 
Thy wit's great overplus. 

But teach us yet 
Wisely to husband it ; 
Lest we that talent spend ; 
And having once brought to an end 
Tluit precious stock, the store 
Of su.h a wit, tlie world should have no more. 

At the age of thirty-six Herrick took 
holy orders, and was in l(i29 presented by 
Charles I. to the vicarage of Dean Prior, 
in Devonshire. Here he wrote numerous 
poems, not altogether of a clerical charac- 
ter, but containing many clever descrip- 
tions of rural customs and manners. In 
1647 he published the Nolle Numbers, and 
the Ilesperides, or Works Humane and Di- 
vine, which were dedicated to '' the most 
Illustrious and most Hopeful Prince 



Charles," tlien a lad of eighteen, and after- 
wards King Charles 11. In tliis publica- 
tion the author drops the clerical desig- 
tion, and announces himself as " Robert 
Herrick, P^squire." 

His volume had harclly been published 
when Herrick was ejected from his living 
by the "Long Parliament." He repaired 
to London, where he lived as best he could 
for ten or tM'elve years. Upon the resto- 
ration of Charles IL, in 1660, Herrick was 
reinstated in his vicarage. He was now 
close upon tliree-score-and-ten, well-wearied 
of a life which had been nowise saintly, 
though apparently not marked by any 
great excesses. In liis old age he wrote 
the following " Apologia " for some of the 
writings of his earlier years : 

uerkick's apologia. 
For these, iny uubaptized rhymes, 
Writ in my wild unhallowed times — 
For ever}" sentence, clause, and word. 
That's not inlaid with Thee, O Lord, 
Forgive uiv, God, and blot each line 
Out of my book that is not thine : 
But if, 'mongst all, thou tindest one 
Worthy thy benediction. 
That one, of all the rest shall be 
The glory of my work and me. 

For nearly a century and a lialf after the 
death of Herrick Ins poems appear to have 
been almost forgotten. In 1810 a selection 
from tlie IlrsjK-riiIrs was published by Dr. 
Nott; since then several good editions have 
ai)peared in England and America. Among 
these there is no better one than tliat ed- 
ited by Prof. Child, of Harvard Ccdlege (2 
vols., Boston, 1856.) Herrick's poems in- 
clude not a few of the daintiest fancies in 
the English language. 


Lord, Tliou hast given mo a cell 

Wherein to dwell : 
A little house, whose humhle roof 

Is weatherproof; 
Under the spars of which I lie 

Both soft and dry. 
Where Thou, my chamber for to ward. 

Hast set a guard 
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 

Me while I sleep. 
Low is my porch, as is my fate, 

lioth void of state ; 
And yet the threshold of my door 

Ls worn by the poor. 
Who hither come, and freely get 

(rood words or meat. 
Like as my parlor, so my hall, 

And kitchen small ; 
A little buttery, and therein 

A little bin, 
Which keeps my little loaf of bread, 

Unchipt, unflead. 
Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier 

Make me a fire. 
Close by whose living coal I sit, 

And glow like it. 
Lord, I confess, too, when I dine. 

The pulse is Thine, 
And all those other bits that be 

There placed by Thee. 
The worts, the purslain, and the mess 

Of water-cress. 
Which of thy kindness Thou hast sent, 

And my content. 
Makes those, and my beloved beet, 

To be more sweet. 

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering 

With guiltless mirth; 
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink. 

Spiced to the brink. 



Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand 

That sows my land : 
All this, and better, dost Thou send 

JVIe for this end : 
That I should render for my part 

A tluinkful heart. 
Which, fired with incense, I resign 

As wholly Thine : 
But the acceptance — that must be, 

O Lord, by Thee. 


Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 

Why do you fall so fast ? 

Your date is not so past. 
But you may stay j^et here awhile, 

To blush and gently smile, 

And go at last. • 

What ! were ye born to be 

An hour or half's delight. 
And so to bid good-night ? 

'Twas pity nature brought ye forth 
Merely to show your worth. 
And lose you quite. 

But you are lovely leaves, where we 
May read how soon things have 
Their oiul, though ne'er so brave ; 

And after tlicy have shoAvn their jjride, 
Like you awhile, they glide 
Into the grave. 


Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon ; 
As 3'et the early-rising sun 
Has not attained his noon : 
Stay, stay. 
Until the hasting day 

Has run 
But to the (>V('n-song ; 
And liaving prayed together, we 
Will go with you along! 


Weluivo slioi-t tinio to stay us you! 
\Vc hiivo as short a spring; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you or anything; 

We die, 
As your liours do ; and dry 
Like the summer's rain, 
Or as the pearls of morning-dew, 
' Ne'er to be found again. 


Cherry ripe, ripe, rii)e, T cry, 
Full and fair ones— come and huy ! 
If so he you ask me where 
-They do grow ? — 1 answer : There, 
Where my dulia's lips do smile — 
There's the land, or cherry-isle; 
AVhose plantations fidly show 
All the year where cherries grow. 


Virgins promised, when 1 died, 
That they would each primrose-tide. 
Duly morn and evening come. 
And with flowers dress my tomb : 
Having promised, pay your debts, 
Maids, and here strew violets. 


In the hour of my distress. 
When temptations me oppress. 
And when f my sins confess, 
Sweet S})irit, comfort me ! 

When I lie within my bed. 
Sick in heart, and sick in head, 
And with doubts discomforted 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
When the house doth sigh and weep, 
And the world is drowned in sleep, 
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, 

Sweet Spirit comfort me ! 


When the passing-bell doth toll, 
And the Furies in a shoal 
Come to fight a ])arting soul 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When the tapers now burn blue, 
And the comforters are few, 
And that number more than true. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

^ATien the priest his last has prayed^ 
And I nod to Avhat is said, 
'Cause my speech is now decayed. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When God knows I'm tossed about^ 
Either with despair or doubt, 
Yet before the glass is out, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

When tilt' Tempter me pursueth, 
With the sins of all my youth. 
And half damns me with untruth. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 

Wlion the flames and hellish cries. 
Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, 
And all terrors me surprise, 

Sweet Spirit, comfort nu> ! 

When the judgment is revealed. 
Add that o2)ened which was scaled. 
When to Thee I have appealed. 
Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 


English astronoiiier ; burn in IT-jS ; died 
in 1S22. He was the son of a ninsician 
of Hanover. His early educational advan- 
tages were not great, but lie repaired all 
their deficiences by his own efforts, and 
became, not only a skillful musician, but 
a lin(! matliemalician. About 1758 he went 
to England. After several years of teach- 
ing music, he obtained the position of or- 
ganist in a fashionable churcli in Bath, in 
wliich city he became the leading musical 
authority. Wliile practicing his profession, 
he devoted liis leisure to astronomical re- 
search. In 1772 lie Avas joined by his sister 
Caroline, who became his efficient co- 
operator both in nuisic and astronomy. 
Unable to purcliase a telescope, Ilerschel 
set about constructing one, and in 1774 
completed one of six feet focal length. 
All the leisure of sister and brother was 
now given to astronomy. The nights to 
observation, aiul the days to the toil of 
grinding and polisliing specula. 

In 1780 his first })aper, an Inquiry in 
Iteyard to the varyinji Luatre of several 
Stars^ was communicated to the Royal 
Society. This was followed by other papers 
embodying the results of his observations, 
and culminating in an inquiry whether 
there was any relation between the recur- 
rence of sun-spots, and the varial)ility of 
seasons on the earth. The appearance of 
a white spot near each pole of the planet 
Mars, led to investigations which caused 
him to conclude that the climate of that 
planet (dosely resembles ours, and that the 
white patches were snow, a conclusion 
since confirmed by other investigators. In 
X781 he discovered a planet to which li§ 


gave the name of G-eorglum Sidus (the 
" Georgian Star "), now called " Uranus." 
In 1782 Her.schel was invited by George 
III. to Windsor, and was appointed the 
King's private astronomer, with a salary of 
^200 a year, and an additional X50 for 
the assistance of his sister. They estab- 
lished tliemselves at Slough, where they 
continued their investigations. From 1784 
to 1818 he addressed a series of remarkable 
papers to the Royal Society, on the stars 
of the ]Milky Way and their attendant 
planets, and on the nebulous masses from 
the condensation of which he conceived the 
stellar universe to have been formed. Be- 
sides pursuing his investigations, lie con- 
structed a grand reflecting telescope, 
which he completed in August, 1789, 
tlirough which he could see Saturn with 
six of its satellites, and through Avhich he 
soon afterwards discovered the seventh. 
The eiglith and the Saturnian ring esca])ed 

His sister, Carolina Lt'(;retia Her- 
SOHEL (born in 1750 ; died in 1848). Slie 
resided at Hanover, her birthplace, until 
her twenty-second year, wlien she went to 
England, joining her brother at Bath, to 
whom she gave great assistance, not only 
acting as liis amanuensis, but frequently 
performing the long and complicated cal- 
culations involved in his investigations. 
Her contributions to science appeared 
mostly in her l)rother's works, and under 
his name. After the death of her brother 
in 1822, she returned to Hanover. In 1828 
she completed a catalogue of the fixed 
stars and ncbulai ol)scrved by her brother, 
for wliich she, received a gold medal from 
the Astronomical Society of London, of 
which she was elected an honorary member. 


HERSCniKL, John Fkkdekick Wrr^ 
LIAM, ail ]Miglisli aslronoiner and aullior, 
son of Frederick William lleischel, born 
in 1792 ; died in 1871. He was educated 
at Eton and at St. Joseph's College, Cam- 
bridge. In 1<S20 lie jn'odneed a work on 
the differential ealeulus, and other Ijranches 
of mathematieal science. Jle also contrib- 
uted two or three memoirs to the Royal 
Society upon tlie apjilications of mathe- 
matical analysis. In 1820 he comj)leted, 
with his father's assistance, a rejecting 
telescope 18 inelies in diameter and 20 feet 
in focal length, with which he made his 
greart astronomical observations. Before 
the end of 1833 he had re-examined all Ins 
father's discoveries of double stars and 
nebuhe, and had added many of his own. 
In November of this year he set sail for 
the Cape of Good Hope, with tlie resolu- 
tion of exploring the heavens of the south- 
ern hemisphere — " to attempt the comple- 
tion of a survey of the whole surface of 
the heavens ; " and in March, 1834, began 
his labors. At tlie end of four years he 
returned to England. His work, Jiesidts 
of Observations at the Cape of Good Hope, 
published in 1847, gives a faint idea of 
what his labors must have been. Sir John 
Herscliel was an accom})lished chemist, and 
made several important discoveries in pho- 
tography. He was the author of several 
books : On the Study of Natural Philosophy 
(1830), Outlines of Astronomy (1849), 
Familiar Lectures on Scientific Suhjeets, a 
collection of papers contributed to Good 
Words. He contributed to the Encyclo- 
poodia Britannica the articles on Meteorol- 
ogy, Physical Geography, and Telescope. 
A volume of his Collected Addresses has 
also been published. 




Nothing can be more unfounded than the 
objection which has been taken, in limine, by 
persons, well meaning perhaps, certainly nar- 
row minded, against the study of natural j^hil- 
osophy — that it fosters in its cultivators an un- 
due and overweening self-conceit, leads them 
to doubt of the immortality of the soul, and to 
scoff at revealed religion. Its natural effect, 
Ave may conlidently assert, on every well-con- 
stituted mind, is, and must be, the direct con- 
trary. No doubt, the testimony of natural 
reason, on whatever exercised, must of necessity 
stop short of those truths which is the object 
of revelation to make known ; but while it 
places the existence and principal attributes of 
a Deity on such grounds as to render doubt ab- 
surd and atheism ridiculous, it unquestioiuibly 
opposes no natural or necessary obstacle to 
further progress : on the contrary, by cherish- 
ing as a vital principle an unbounded spirit of 
incpiirj' and ardency of expectation, it unfetters 
the mind from prejudices of every kind, and 
leaves it open and free to every impression of a 
higher nature which it is susceptible of receiv- 
ing, guarding only against enthusiasm and 
self-deception by a habit of strict investigation, 
but encouraging, rather than suppressing, 
everytliing that can offer a prospect or a hope 
beyond the present obscure and unsatisfactory 

The character of the true philosopher is to 
hope all things not unreasonable. He who 
seen obscurities which appeared im2)enetrable 
in physical and mathematical science suddenly 
dispelled, and the most barren and unpromising 
fields of incpiiry converted, as if by inspiration, 
into rii^li and inexhaustible springs of knowl- 
edge and i)o\ver, on a simple cbange of our point 
of view, or Ity merely liringing them to bear on 
some principle which it never occurred bef<»re 
to try, will surely lie tbe very last to .ac(piiesce 
in any dispiriting prosj)ect3 of either tlie pre»- 

JOHN F. W. nKRsrilKL.— .1 

ent or the future destinies of inaiikind ; wliilo 
on tliM other Imnd, the bouiulh.'.ss views of iii- 
tellectuiil ami moral, as well as material rela- 
tions which open on liim on all hands in the 
course of these pursuits, the knowledge of the 
trivial place he occu})ies in the scale of creation, 
and the sense continually pressed upon him of 
his own weakness and incapacity to suspend or 
modify the slightest movement of the vast 
machinery he sees in action around liini, must 
effectually convince liim that liumility of pre- 
tension, no less than confidence of hojte, is 
•wliat best becomes liis character. 

The question '' cut bono " — to wliat practical 
end and advantage do your researches tend \' — 
is one which the speculative philosopher who 
loves knowledg(» for its ow^n sake, and enjoys, 
as a rational being should enjoy, the mere con- 
templation of harmonious and mutually de- 
pendent truths, can seldom hear without a 
sense of Ininiiliation. He feels that there is a 
lofty and disinterested pleasure in Ins specula- 
tions which ought to exempt them from such 
questioning; communicating as they do to liis 
own mind the purest haj)piness (after the ex- 
ercises of the benevolent and moral feelings) of 
which human nature is susceptible, and tend- 
ing to the injury of no one, he might surely 
allege t/tis as a suiKicient and direct reply to 
those who, having themselves little capacity, 
and less relish for intellectual ]»ursuits, are con- 
stantly repeating upon him this inquiry. 


If T were to pray for a taste wliich should 
stand me in stead under every variety of cir- 
cumstaiK'cs, and be a source of liappiness and 
cheerfulness to me tlirough life, and a shield 
against its ills, howevt^r things might go amiss, 
and the world frown upon me, it would be a 
taste for reading. I speak of it, of course, only 
as a worldly advantage, and not in the slightest 
degree as superseding or derogating from the 
higher office, and surer antl stronger panoply 
5 ^s 


of religious principles, but as a taste, an in- 
strument, and a mode of pleasurable gratifica- 
tion. Give a man this taste and the means of 
gratifying it, and you can hardly fail of mak- 
ing a happy man, unless, indeed, you put into 
his hands a most perverse selection of books. 
You place him in contact with the best society 
in every period of history — with the wisest, the 
wittiest — with the tendcrest, the bravest, and 
the purest characters that have adorned hu- 
manity. You make him a denizen of all na- 
tions — a contemporary of all ages. The world 
has been created for him. It is hardly possible 
but the character should take a higher and 
better tone from the constant habit of associ- 
ating in thought with a class of thinkers, to say 
the least of it, above the average of humanity. 
It is nuirally impossible but that the manners 
should take a tinge of good breeding and civil- 
ization fi'om having constantly before one's 
eyes the way in which th(^ best-bred and best- 
informed have talked and conducted themselves 
in their intercourse with eacli other. There is 
a gentle but perfectly irresistible coercion in a 
habit of reading well directed, over the whole 
term of a man's (character and conduct, which 
is not the less effectual because it works insen- 
sibly, and because it is really the last thing he 
dreams of. It cannot, in short, be better 
summed up than in the words of the Latin 
poet: " Emollis mores, lies sinit esse feros." It 
civilizes the conduct of men, and suffers them 
not to remain barbarous. 


Now I come to consider the manner in wliich 
an earthquake is propagated from i)laco to 
place ; how it travels, in short. It runs along 
tlie earth precisely in the same manner, and 
according to the same mechanical laws as a 
wave along the sea, or rather as the waves of 
sound run along the air, but quicker. The 
cartlupiake which destroyed Lisbon ran out 
from thence, as from a centre, in all directions. 


id ii rate averaging about twenty miles per 
minute, as far as cuulJ be gatliered from a com- 
parison of the times of its occurrence at dif- 
ferent places : But tliere is little doubt that 
it must have been retarded by having to 
traverse all sorts of ground ; for a blow or 
shock of any description is conveyed through 
the substance on which it is delivered with the 
rapidity of sound in that substance. Perhaps 
it may be new to many who hear me to be 
told that sound is conveyed by water, by stone, 
by iron, and indeed by everything, and at a 
different rate for each. In air it travels at the 
rate of about 1110 feet per second, or about 13 
miles- in a minute. In water much faster, 
more than four times as fast (4700 feet.) In 
iron ten times as fast (11,400 feet), or about 
130 miles in a minute, so that a blow delivered 
endways at one end of an iron rod 130 miles 
long, would only reach the other after a lapse 
of a minute, and a pull at one end of an iron 
wire of that length, would require a minute 
before it would be felt at the other. But the 
substance of the earth througli which the shock 
is conveyed is not only far less elastic than 
iron, but it does not form a coherent, connected 
body ; it is full of interruptions, cracks, loose 
materials, and all these tend to deaden and 
retard the shock ; and putting together all the 
.tccounts of all the earthcpiakes that have been 
exactly observed, their rate of travel may be 
taken to vary from as low as 12 or 13 miles a 
minute to 70 or 80. 

The way, then, that we may conceivt^ an 
earthquake to travel is this :— 1 shall take the 
case which is most common, when the motion 
of the ground to and fro is horizontal. IIow 
far each particular spot on the surface of the 
ground is actually j)ushed from its ])lace there 
is no way of ascertaining, since all the sur- 
rounding objects receive the same imjmlse 
almost at the same instant of time, but there 
are many indications that it is often several 


yards. In tho oartliquiike of Cutch trees were 
seen to flog the ground with their branches, 
which proves that their stems must have been 
jerked suddenly away for some considerable 
distance and as suddenly pushed back ; and the 
same conclusion follows from the sudden rise 
of the water of lakes on the side where the 
shock reaches them, and its fall on the opposite 
side ; the bed of the lake has been jerked away 
for a certain distance from under the water, 
and pulled back. 

Now supjiose a row of sixty persons, stand- 
ing a mile ajmrt from each other, in a straight 
line, in the direction in which the shock 
travels, at a rate, we will suppose, of sixty 
miles pc^r minute; and let the ground below 
the first got a sudden and violent shove, carrying 
it a yard in the direction of the next. Since 
this shock will not reach the next till after the 
lapse of one second of time, it is clear that the 
space between the two will be shortened by a 
yard, and the ground — that is to say, not the 
mere loose soil on the surface, but the whole 
mass of solid rock below, down to an unknown 
depth — compressed, or driven into a smaller 
space. It is this compression that carries the 
shock forwards. The elastic force of the rocky 
matter, like a coiled spring, acts both ways ; it 
drives back the first man to his old place, and 
shoves the second a yard nearer to the third; 
and so on. Instead of men, place a row of tall 
buildings, or columns, and tlu-y will tumble 
down in succession, the base lljing forwards, 
and leaviiig the tojxs behind to drop on the 
soil on the sideyVo?>i which the shock came. 
This is just what was seen to happen in Mes- 
sina in tlie great Calabrian eartlKpiake. As 
the shock ran along the ground, the houses of 
tlie Faro were seen to topple down in succes- 
sion ; beginning at one end and running on to 
the other, as if a succession of mines had been 
sprung. In tlu; eartJKjuake in Cutch, a senti- 
jjel standing at one end cf a long straight line 


of Willi, saw tli(^ Willi Low forward and r(;covcr 
itsi'If ; not all at once, but with a .swell like a 
wavo running all along it w itli iTunicnse rapid- 
ity, lu this casi! it is evident that the earth- 
quake wave must liave liad its front ohli<^uc to 
the direction of tlie wall just as an obliquely- 
held ruler runs along the edge of a pa<'e of 
paper while it advances, like a wave of tlu- sea, 
perpendicularly to its own length. — Familiar 
Lectures on JScientiJic ^Subjects. 



HERTZ, Hendrick, a Dunisli dramatist 
and poet, born in 1798 ; died in 1870. He 
studied law, but had scarcely passed his 
examination when he gave himself to lit- 
erature. His first comedy appeared anony- 
mously, in 1827. He afterwards travelled 
in Germany, Italy, and France. He left 
in all thirty -six works. King Renes Daugh- 
ter^ a lyrical drama, j^roduced in 1845, is 
regarded as his masterpiece. Its Avliole 
action is comprised between noon and sun- 
set of a single day. In the folloAving scene 
lolanthe, the King's blind daughter, is 
represented as sleeping in a garden under 
the inlluence of a talisman. The following 
scene is given with considerable curtail- 


[Characters: King Rene; Iolantiie, his 
blind diuigliter ; EuN Jauia, a physician ; 
Tristan ; Almekick, a messenger from tlie 
King ; Martha, and Bertrand, attendants 

of lOLANTHE.] 

Almerik. — And so she lacks for nouglit, and 
is content 
If but some stranger on occasion come ? 
Of all the wealth the world to us j)resents, 
Of all its glories, she surniiscth nouglit V 
Does she not (juestion you ? 

Martha. — That is a point 

On which 'tis not so easy to reply ; 
It may be she suj)2)resses many a thought. 
She knows there is an entrance to this vale, 
Hears the bell sound when any one arrives, 
Uriglitens to hear it, and in silence waits, 
With cars intent. Yet doth she never ask 
Where is the entrance, whitherward it leads; 
For slie lias lieard that there are many things 
Sh(! must not ask, hut leave to years to teach. 
So 'tis with children. Sjn-ak to them of (Jod. 
Of power omnipotent, of another lifiv 


And inarlc how they will listen, <)p('iiiii<; wido 
'riicir little oyos in wonder, as some doubt — 
A ]»assing shade — is painted on tlieir looks; 
And then, at last, with touchinj^ faith, accept 
For truth the things they may not compre- 
So now for Tolanthe the whole world 
Is Olio vast mystery, which sIk; oft would 

Then will her father or the abhess sa}- : 
" Rest thee content, my child — thou art too 

Some future time thou'lt comprehend it all." 
In this she ]iiously confides ; nor dreams 
She wants the eyes' clear sight, to compass all 
The s])lendors of this goodly universe. — 
May it not be. Sir, while we darkly muse 
Upon our life's mysterious destinies, 
That we in blindness walk, like lolanthe, 
Unconscious that true vision is not ours? 
Yet is that faith our hope's abiding star. 

\_Enter King Rene, Eijn Jaiiia and Ber- 


liene. — Martha, I In-ing thee hero 

Good Ebn Jahia. As I learn, he hath 
Been here to-day once before. 
How goes it now ? 

Mar. — Even to a wish, my liege. 

7i'e//e— All that the leech enjoiTied thou hast 
fulfilled ? 
Neglected nothing ? lias lolanthe lain 
With eyes close bandaged every night ? 
Mar. — She has. 

Jienc (to Khn Jahia). — That was a perilous 
venture. It is strange 
She bears it. Yet the chance is fortunate 
That the T)eo stung heron the temple lately; 
This served us for a plausible pretext. 
Ah ! sure the little bee deceived itself. 
In this fair world, that's tended by her care, 
Where, like a llower, she grows amidst her 



The insect, dazzled by the fragrant bloom, 
Deemed that it nestled in a rose's bud. 
Forgive me ! It is sinful thus to speak 
Of mine own child. But now no more of 

Thou long'st to see the fruitage of thy skill, 
Go, then, to lolanthe ; Bertrand ! Martha ! 
Follow him in ; perchance he may require you. 

(Ebx Jahia, followed by Bertrand and 
Martha goes out, and the King converses 
with Almerik, whom he sends away when Ebn 
Jahia returns.) 

Rene. — My Ebn Jahia, com'st thou like 
the dove 
That bears the olive-branch ? Thou lookest 

And, as thine art, unfathomable all. 
How shall I construe what thy looks import ? 

Ehn J. — I have the strongest hopes, my 

noble liege. 
Hene. — Is't so ? Oh, thou'rt an angel sent 
from heaven ! 
Thy dusky visage, like that royal Moor's 
Who knelt beside our great Kedeemer's cradle, 
Heralds the star, shall cheer my night of gloom. 
Say, .Fahia, say, whereon thy hope is based ? 
What is thy counsel ; what thy purpose ? 

Speak ! 
'Tis written in a book which late I read, 
That oftentimes an unsound eye is cured 
P)y application of the surgeon's knife. 
This thou wilt never try, my Ebn Jahia; 
Thou know'st the eye is a most noble part, 
And canst not gain such mastery o'er thyself 
As to approach my lolanthe's eyes 
With instruments of steel. Nay, thou must 

To mar the beauty of their azure depths, 
Tliat dark, deep ft)unt, which still, though sad- 
dened o'er, 
Wells forth such gloriims radiance. Oh! her 


III<:XI)KI('K IIEllTZ.— t 

How is it possiMi^ tluit night should brood 
On two fiiir orlts of such transccndiMit sliucu 'i 

Kbit Jnhia. — Nay, \>v. at at case ! You. ucmmI 
not fi'ar for this. 
'Twould aid us little, should 1 have recourse 
To instruiueuts. 

Itcnc. — What is thy jiurpose, then '/ 

Khn. JaJiia. — Your pardon, good niy hjrd ! 
My treatment is 
A mystery, like all my leeches' craft ; 
It scarce would serve my purpose to divulge it. 
'Tis not the fruitage of a moment's growth ; 
No, but the slow result of wakeful years, 
Shaped — step by stej) conducted to one point, 
Wherciat, so speed it Heaven! it shall succeed; 
Ay, and succeed it must, this very day. 
Or fail forever. 

Jie/ie. — How! This very day ? 

J^Jb/i Jahia. — Soon as the sun has sunk be- 
neath tin; hill. 
And a soft twilight spreads along the vale, 
Such as her eyes, still to the light unused, 
]\[ay bear with safety, T will test my plan. 

llene. — Ah, Ebn Jahia, 2)rithee, not to-day! 
I'^rom day to day, from hour to hour, have I, 
With restless eagerness, looked onwards for 
This moment; and alas! now it hath come 
My heart grows faint, and wishes it away. — 
Think what I jieril ! When the sun goes down. 
My fairest hope, perchance, goes down with it. 
Thou'rt wra2»t in thought. Art thou content 
to pause ? 

J^hn tTdhia. — I will not wait. 

Rene. — Then, tell me, dost thou fear ? 
Art thou not certain of the issue ? Thou 
Didst put t(^ r|uestion yonder silent stars, 
From which thy potent art can wring res])onse. 
What was their answer ? tell me, Ebn Jahia, 
The lioroscope — was't happy ? 

JlJfni Jahia. — Yes, it was. 

I told 3'ou so already. Yet the stars 
Inclinant, non necessitant. They influence 
The fortunes of mankind, yet do they not 



Rule nature's laws with absolute control. 
Ivest thee at ease : I have no fear for this. 
Another hindrance menaces my skill. 

llenc. — A hindrance ? 

Jilbn Jaliia. — One, my liege, I apprehend, 
Which you will find it hard to obviate, 
lolanthe, ere I bead me to my task, 
Must comprehend what she till now has lacked. 
Must learji this very day that she is blind. 

Rene,. — No, Ebn Jahia, no ; tliis cannot be ! 

Ehn Jahia. — It must be, or my skill is 

Henc. — No, no ! oh, never ! never ! Tliou 
wilt not 
Constrain me to this monstrous cruelty, 
And strip her all at once, with sudden wrench, 
Of that unconsciousness has been her blessing. 
Not slowl}'^, by degrees, but all at once, 
Force on her tender soul this fearful truth ? 
I cannot do it ! No, it may not be ! 

J^bn Jahia. — E'en as you will. .1 only can 
advise ; 
And if you will not trust to my advice. 
Then I am useless here. 80, fare 3'e well ! 
Hence to the convent, 1 ! There you will iind 

If your resolve shall alter. Vet, bethink you; 
Sink but the sun behiml yon mountain tops, 
My utmost skill cannot again avail. 


Jieiic. — Ob, dreadful strait ! And I so dearly 
A hope, whicli yet so soon may be undone ! 
Shall I destroy at oiuh; her cheerful mood, 
Convert it into comfortless despair. 
And sec her youth grow pale by slow degrees. 
Wither and die in mournful consciousness? 
He yet shall yield. I will not rest until 
He hears iiic, ainl submits to my desire. (liJxit.) 

[Tristan, who lias been unwillingly be- 
trothed to Ini, VN riiK, though he bas never 
seen her, and does not know that she is blind, 


enters tho cottugo wlioro slio is slooping, ac- 
coniimnied by his prccoptor Gkofkkkv. As 
he turns to go, ho takes tho talisman from lior 
hroast, and slie immediately awakes, and fol- 
ows liim into the garden. He loves her at first 
sight, and asks her to give him a red rose. He 
then discovers that she cannot distinguisli one 
llmver from another, except hy form, texture, 
or perfume.] 

Tristan. — Have they never told tliee, then, 
That o})jects, things, can be distinguished, 

Placed at a distance — with tlie aid of sight ';' 
lolanthe. — At distance ? Yes ! 1 by his twit- 
'tering know 
The little bird that sits upon tho roof, 
And, in like fashion, all men by their voice. 
The .sprightly steed whereon I daily ride, 
I know him in the distance by his pace 
And by liis neigh. Yet with the help of sight ? 
They told me not of that. An instrument 
Fashioned by art, or but a tool, perhaps ? 
I do not know this sight. Canst teach me, 

Its use and purpose ? 

Tristan (((side). — almightyPowers ! 
She does not know or dream that she is blind! 
lolanthe (after aj^ause). — Whence art thou ? 

Thou dost use so many words 
T find impossible to understand; 
And in thy converse, too, there is so much 
For me quite new and strange ! Say, is the 

Which is thy home so very different 
From this of ours ? Then' stay, if stay thou 

And teach me all that I am wanting in. 

Tristayi. — I'll come 

Again, and soon — to-day I'll come again. 
Wilt thou permit me with thy hand to mark 
How high I am, that, when we next shall 




Thou may'st distinguish me ? 

lolanthe. — What need of that 

I know that few resemble thee in height. 
Thy utterance comes to me as from above, 
Like all that's high and inconceivable. 
And know I not thy tones ? Like as thou 

None sjjeak beside. No voice, no melody 
I've known in nature or in instrument. 
Doth own a resonance so lovely, sweet, 
So winning, full, and gracious as thy voice. 
Trust me, I'll know thee well amidst them all ! 
Tristan. — Then fare thee well, until wo 

meet once more. 
lolanthe. — There, take my hand ! Farewell ! 

Thou'lt come again — 
Again, and soon ? — Thou knows't I wait for 

thee ! 
[King Rene, the physician and the attendants 
return, and ISIartha gathers from what the 
princess tells her, that she knows her blindness. 
The king explains to her further what is this 
sense of sight and bids her go into the cottage 
with Ebx Jaiiia, first to sink into a slumber 
and then to wake seeing, if it be Heaven's will.] 
lolanthe. — What ails thee, father ? Where- 
fore shakes thy hand ? 
My once dear father, joy'st thou not, that now 
The hour has come thou'st panted for so long ? 
Thou fearest it will prove unfortunate. 
Yet, even then, shall I not be, as ever, 
Thy child, thy own dear child — thy child, 

who joys 
To be so dear — joys in her hji|)py lot ! — 
Let me go in, then. 

Jiene. — Oh, my child ! my child ! 

lolanthe. — Nay, do not fear! For what my 

sage kind master 
Has ponder'd well, will prosper, T am sure. 
]t fecils to me as though e'en now I know 
'^riie singular j^jwer which thou hast (tailed the 

And it hath found its way to me already. 

7'' ' 


All, wliile that wdiulroiis stranger was beside me 
A IVcIiiig (|iiivered throiii^li nic, wliiclj I ne'er 
JIad known before; and i-very word he spoke 
Resounded like an echo in my soul, 
With new and uniniagined melodies. 
Didst thou not say the power of light is swift, 
And gives significance to what it toucluis ? 
That it is also closely blent with warmth — 
With the heart's warmth ? Oh! 1 know it is. 
If what thou call'st the light consist in thi.s, 
Then a forewarning tells me it will be 
llevealed to me to-day. Yet on one point 
Thou dost mistake. Tis not the eye that sees ; 
Here, close beside the heart, our vision lies ; 
Here is it seated in remembrance sweet, 
A reflex of the light that pierced my soul, 
The light 1 go with bounding hope to meet ! 

[While the king awaits the result of the physi- 
cian's care, Thistan and Gkoffrf.y return, and 
Tristan learns that the blind girl whom he 
loves and the princess whom he hates are the 
same person.] 

\_Enter Ehx Jahia, leading Iola-ntiie by the 

lolajithe. — Where art thou leading me ? 

God ! where am I ? Support me — oh, sup- 

port me ! 
Ebn J. — Calm thee, my «diild ! 

lolanthe. — Support me — oh, stand still ! 

1 ne'er was here before — what shall I do 

In this strange place ? Oh, what is that ? 

Support me ! 
It comes so close on me, it gives me pain. 
Kbn Jahia. — lolanthe, calm thee ! Look 
upon the earth ! 
That still hath been to thee thy truest friend. 
And now, too, greets thee with a cordial smile. 
This is the garden thou hast ever tended. 
lolanthe. — My garden — mine ? Alas I know 

it not. 
Ebn J. — Cease your fears, my cnild. 



These stately trees are the date-palms, whose 

And fruit to thee have long been known. 

lolanthe. — Ah, no ! 

Indeed I know them not ! This radiance, too. 
That everywhere surrounds me — yon great vault. 
That arclies there above us — oh, how high! — 
What is it ? Is it God ? Is it His Spirit, 
Which, as you said, pervades the universe ? 
Ebfi J. — Yon radiance is the radiance of 
the light. 
God is in it, like as He is in all. 
Yon blue profound, that fills yon airy vault, 
It is the heaven, where, as we do believe, 
God hath set up his glorious dwelling-place 
Kneel down, my child ! and raise your hands on 

To heaven's o'erarching vault — to God — and 
lolanthe (kneds). — Mysterious Being, who 
to me hast spoken 
When darkness veiled mine eyes, teach me to 

seek Thee 
In Thy light's beams, that do illume this world ; 
Still, in the world, teach me to cling to Thee ! — 
Yes, He hath heard me. T can feel He hath, 
And on me pours the comfort of His peace. 
He is the only one that speaks to me, 
Invisibly and kindly as before. 

Ehn J. — Arise ! arise, my child, and look 

lolanthe. — Say, what are these, that bea? 

such noble forms ? 
Ebn J. — Thou know'st them all. 
lolanthe. — Ah, no ; I can know nothing. 
liene (approaching lohmihe). — Look on me, 

lolanthe — me, thy father ! 
lolanthe {enihracAtKj hi)n). — ^Fy father 1 Oh, 
my God ! Thou art my father! 
I know thee now — thy voice, thy clasping hand. 
Stay hi'ri> ! \\i\ my protector, be my guide! 
1 am so strange here in this world of light. 
They've taken all that I possessed away — 



All tliat in old tiiiu! was tliy daughter's joy. 
Jicnc.— 1 have call'd out a guide fur thee, 

my cliild. 
loUinthc— Whom meanest thou '/ 
I{enc{poi)itiii(jto Tristan). — See, he stands 

exi)ecting thee. 
lolanthe.— The stranger yonder V Is he 
owa of those 
r.right cherubim thou once didst tell nie of? 
Is he the angel of the light come down ? 

Jiene. — Thou knowest him — hast sp(jken 

with him. Think ! 
lolanthe.— With him ? with him ? Father, 
I understand. 
In yonder glorious form must surely dwell 
The voice that late I heard— gentle, yet strong: 
The one sole voice that lives in Nature's round. 
{To Iristan). Oh, hut one word of what 

thou said'st hefore ! 
Tristan. — Oh, sweet and gracious lady ! 
lolanthe.— List ! oh, list ! 

With these dear words the light's benignant 

Found out a way to me ; and these sweet wonls 
With my heart's warmth are intimately blent. 
Tristan. — loLanthe ! Dearest ! 
Jicne. — Blessings on you both 

From God, whose wondrous works \\v all revere ! 
Transl. of Timovoiii:. Martin. 



HERVEY, James, an English author, 
born in 1714; died in 1758. He was edu- 
cated at Lincoln College, Oxford. In 1737 
he took Holy Orders, and in 1752 suc- 
ceeded his father, whose curate he had 
been, in the livings of Weston Favell and 
(\)lling\vood. His religious writings be- 
came highly popular, liis 3Iedit(Uions and 
Contemjdations (1740-17) passing through 
fourteen editions in as many years. They 
embrace 3fedifations amon(j the Tombs, lie- 
flections on a Flower Garden, a Descant on 
Creation, and Contemplations on the Night 
and Starry Heavens, hi 1753 he published 
Remarks on Lord Bolin<jhroke's Letters on 
History, and in 1755, Theron and Aspasia, 
or a series of Letters upon the most important 
and interestiny Suhjccts. He also edited 
Jenks^s Devotions, and Biirnhanis Pious 


Sec how the day is shortened ! The sun, de- 
tained in fairer climes, or engaged in more 
agreeable services, rises like an unwilling visit- 
ant, witli tardy and rdnctant steps. He walks 
M'ith a sli}' indifference along the edges of the 
sky, casting an ohliqne glance. lie just looks 
upon our dejected world, and scarcely scatters 
light through the thick air. Dim is his ap- 
pearance, languid are his gleams wliile he con- 
tinues. Or, if he chance to wear a brigliter 
asj)ect, and a chiudless brow, yet, like tlie young 
and gay in the house of mourning, he seems 
uneasy till lie is gone, is in haste to depart. 
And let him depart. Why should we wish for 
his longer stay, since lie can show ns nothing hut 
the (h-eation in distress ? The llowery families 
\'w (h-ad, and tlie tuneful trilies are struck 
dmnli. Tlie trees, stript of their verdure and 
hisht'd hv storms, sprrad their naked arms to 
the enraged and relentless Heavens. Fragrance 


no longer Hoats in the air ; but (•liilliiig damps 
hover, or cutting gak'.s IjIow. Nature, divcsti'd 
of all lier Itoautiful robes, sits like a forlorn dis- 
consolate widow in her weeds, while winds in 
doleful accents howl, and rains in repeated 
showers weep. — Meditations and Contenqda- 


Who that looks upward to the midnight sky, 
and with an eye of reason beholds its rolling 
wonders, who can forbear inquiring,- Of what 
were those mighty orbs formed? Amazing to 
relate ! They were produced without ma- 
terials. They spring from emptiness itself. 
The ptately fabric of universal Nature emerged 
out of nothiny. What instruments were used 
by the Supreme Architect, to fashion the parts 
with such ex(|uisite niceness and give so 
beautiful a polish to the whole ? How was all 
connected into one finely-[)roportionedand nobly 
finished structure ? A bare iiat acromplisluMl 
all. " Let them be," saiil God. He added no 
more ; and immediately the marvelous edifice 
arose ; adorned with every beauty ; displaying 
innumerable perfections ; and declaring amidst 
enraptured seraphs, its great Creator's praise. 
By the word uf the Lord were the heavens 
made, and all the host of them by the breath of 
his mouth. What forceful machinery fixed 
some of those ponderous globes on an immov- 
able basis? What irresistible impulse Imwlcd 
others through the circuit of the heavens ? 
What coercive energy confined their impetuous 
courses within limits astonishingly large, yet 
mostminntely true ? Nothing l)ut hisSovereign 
Will. For all things were at first constituted, 
and all to this day abide, "according to his 

Without any toilsome assiduity or laborious 
process, to raise, to touch, to speak such a mul- 
titude of immense bodies into being ; to launch 
them through the spaces of the sky, as an arrow 
from the hand of a giant: to impress on such 


unwieldy masses, a motion far outstripping the 
swiftness of the winged creation ; and to con- 
tinue them in the same rapid whirl for thou- 
sands and thousands of years ; what an amaz- 
ing instance of infinite might is this ! Can 
anything be impossible to the Lord — the Lord 
God, the Creator and Controller of all the ends 
of the eartli, all the regions of the universe ? 
Rather is not all that we count difficult, perfect 
ease to that glorious Being, who onl^' spake, 
and the wojld was made ? who only gave com- 
mand, and the stupendous axle was lodged 
fast, the lofty wheels moved complete ? What 
a sure defense, my soul, is this everlasting 
strength of thy God ! Be this thy continual re- 
fuge, in the article of danger ; thy never-failing 
resource in every time of need. — Jifeditatious 
and Contemj^lations. 


HERVEY, Thomas Kiuble, an EngliKh 
journalist and poet, born at iMancliester in 
1799; died near London in 1859. He 
studied at Cambridge and Oxford, but did 
not take a degree. He began the study 
of law, but abandoned it for literature. 
He contributed to various periodicals, es- 
pecially to the Athenceum, of which he Was 
editor from 1846 to 1854. His principal 
publications are : The Poetical Sketch-Book 
(1829), The DeviVs Progress^ a satire 
(1830), Illustrations of Modern Sculpture 
(1832), The Book of Christmas (183G), and 
JEni/lamrs Helicon in the Nineteenth Cen- 
tury (1841.) His wife, Eleonora Louisa 
(Montague), born in 1811, wrote several 
dramatic poems, tales and juvenile books. 


Morn on the wator ! and, purple and bright, 
]iursts on tho hillow.s tho ilushingof light ; 
O'er tho glad waves, like a child of tho sun, 
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ; 
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, 
And her pennon streams onward, like Hope, in 
the gale ; [sf^"g- 

The winds come around her, in murmur and 
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along ; 
See ! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, 
And the sailor sings gayly aloft in the shrouds. 
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray. 
Over the waters — away, and away ! 
Bright as the visions of j'outh, ere they part, 
I'assing away, like a dream of the heart ! 
Who — as the beautiful pageant sweeps ])y. 
Music around htsr, and sunshine on high — 
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow. 
Oh ! there be hearts that are breaking below ! 
Night on the waves ! — and the moon is on 
Hung like a gem, on the brow of the sky, 
Treading its depths in tin; power of her miglit^ 


And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to 

light ! 
Look to the waters ! — asleep on their breast, 
Seems not the ship like an island of rest ? 
Bright and alone on the shadowy main, . 
Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate 

plain ! 
Who — as she smiles in the silvery light, 
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, 
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky, 
A phantom of beauty — could deem, with a sigh. 
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin. 
And that souls that are smitten lie bursting 

within ? 
Who, as he watches her silently gliding, 
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing 
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, 
Hearts which are parted and broken forever ? 
Or deems that he watches afloat on the wave. 
The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's 

grave ? 
' Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, 
Like a vessel at sea, amidst sunshine and song ! 
Gayly we glide, in the gaze of the world, 
With streamers afloat, and with canvas un- 
All gladness and glory, to wondering eyes. 
Yet chartered by sorrow and freighted with 

sighs : 
Fading and false is the aspect it wears, 
As the smiles we put on, just to cover our 

tears ; 
And the withering thoughts which the world 

cannot know, 
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below; 
AVhilst the vessel drives on to that desolate 

Whcrt^ the dreams of our childhood are vanislied 

and o'er. 

Again again, she comes ! Methiiiks I hear 
Her wild, sweet singing, and her rushing 


My lieart goes forth to moot her witli a tear, 
And wulcomo sends from all its brijken 

It was not thus — not thus — we met of yore, 
When my plumed soul went half-way to the 

To greet her ; and the joyous song she bore 
Was scarce more tuneful than the glad reply: 

The wings are fettered by the weight of years, 

And grief has spoiled the music with her tears, 

She comes ! I know her by her starry eyes, 

I know her by the rainbow in her hair ; 
Her vesture of the light and summer skies; — 

But gcine the girdle which she used to wear 
Of summer roses, and the sandal flowers 

That hung enamored round her fair}' feet, 
When, in her youth, she haunted earthly 

And culled from all the beautiful and sweet. 
No more she mocks me with her voice of mirth. 
Nor offers now the garlands of the earth. 

Come back, come back ! thou hast been absent 
Oh ! welcome back the Sibyl of the soul. 
Who came, and comes again, with pleading 
To offer to the heart her mystic scroll ; 
Though every year she wears a sadder look. 
And sings a sadder song ; and ever}-^ year 
Some further leave.-? are torn from out her book. 
And fewer what she brings, and far more 
As once she came, Oh, might she come again. 
With all the perished volumes offered then ! 

She comes ! She comes ! Her voice is in mine 
ear — 
Her mild, sweet voice, that sings, and sings 
Whose strains of song sweet thoughts awake to 
Like flowers that haunt the margin of a 
rivi-r ; 



(Flowers that like, lovers, only speak in sighs, 
Whose thouglits are hues, whose voices are 
their hearts,) 
Oh — thus the spirit jearns to pierce the skies, 
Exulting throbs, though all save hope de- 
parts : 
Thus tlie glad freshness of our sinless years 
Is watered ever by the heart's rich tears. 

She comes ! I know her by her radiant eyes, 
Before whose smile the long dim cloud de- 
And if a darker shade be on her brow, 

And if her tones be sadder than of yore, 
And if she sings more solemn music now, 

And bears another harp than erst she bore. 
And if around her form no longer glow 

The earthly flowers that in her youth she 
wore — 
That look is loftier and that song more sweet. 
And heaven's flowers — the stars — are at her 


I know thou art gone to the homo of thy rest, 

Then why should my soul be so sad ? 
I know thou art gone where the weary are 

And the mourner looks up and is glad; 
Where Love has put off, iji the land of its birth, 

The stains it had gathered in tliis ; 
And Hope, the sweet singer, that gladdened 
the earth. 

Lies asleep on the bosom of Bliss. 

I know thou art gone where thy foreliead is 
With th(i beauty that dwelt in thy soul, 
Where the liglit of tliy loveliness cannot be 
Nor thy spirit llung back from its goal. 
I know thou hast drunk from tlie Lethe that 
Through a land wlu'rc tliey do not forget; 


Tliat sheds ovtT uii-iiiury only repose, 

And takes from it only regret. 
This eye must be dark, that so long has been 

Ere again it may gaze upon thine ; 
]iut my heart has revealings of thee and thy 

In many a tnkiMi and sign : 
1 never look up, with a vow, to the sky, 

liut a light like thy beauty is there; 
And 1 hear alow murmur lik(i thine in reply, 

When I pour out my spirit in prayer. 

In thy far-away dwelling, wherever it be, 

I know thou hast glimpses of mine ; 
For the love that made all things as music to me, 

1 have not yet learned to resign. 
In the hush of the night, or the waste of the sea, 

Or alone with the breeze on the hill, 
I have ever a presence that whispers of thee. 

And my spirit lies down and is still. 

And though, like a mourner that sits by a tomb, 

I am wra])i)ed by a mantle of care. 
Yet the grii'f of my bosom — oh, call it notgloom ! 

Is not the dark grief of despair. 
]?y sorrow revealed, as the stars are by night, 

Far off a bright vision appears, 
And IloiK', like a rainbow — a creature of light. 

Is born, like the rainbow, from tears, 


HERWEGH, George, a German poet 
born in 1817 ; died in 1875. lie studied 
theology at Tiibingen, but gave it up fur 
literature. Several of his articles in the 
review, Europa^ attracted the attention of 
the King of Wurteuiberg, who exempted 
liiin ivom. military duty, in order that he 
might cultivate his talents. A quarrel with 
an officer deprived him of the royal favor, 
and he fled to Switzerland. In 1811 he 
published at Zurich a volume of political 
poems, Gredichte eines Lebeiidiier ('"' Poems 
of a Living Man"'), which produced a great 
sensation. Herwegh's dream was of a 
united Fatherland. In 1842 he traveled 
in Germany, and had an interview with 
King William I V., whose last words to him 
were, "Let us be honest em.'mies." On the 
same day, the King's ministers, who liad 
previously suppressed the (rcdichte^ for- 
bade the sale of a journal of which lier- 
wegh had been a}>[»ointed editor, but to 
Avhich he had notyet contributed an article. 
His letter of remonstrance to the King 
procured his l)anishment. He returned to 
Switzerland, and in 1811 publislied a sec- 
ond volume of Credichte, poems decidedly 
revolutionary. In the same year he went 
to Paris, and associated with the radical 
leaders there. In the revolutionary movC' 
ment of 1848 he organized a legion ol 
French and German workmen, with whoni 
he entered the Grand Dnchy of Baden, 
The legion was routed by the Wurtemberi; 
soldiery at Dosscnbach, and he owed hi^ 
escape to the courage and energy of hi:* 
wife, wiio had followed liim. He after- 
wards took up his residence in IJcrlin. Be- 
sides his Gedichte^ he publislicd Eln-und- 
zicanzl'j B<>(p'j) aus dcr ScMveiz ("Twenty- 

f }EOK( J 1-: T 1 1-: 1 1 W VAi U.—2 

one Leaves from Switzerland"), Zwei 
PreussenUedet% a translation of Lanuirtine's 
works, and translations of several of Shake- 
speare's plays. 


With Midiiiglit's spirit to JinJ fro 1 walk 

The longtliy streets, where silence reigns su- 

preu)i' — [t;ilk 

How wept they here, how did they laugli and 
t )ne hour ago ! — And now again they dream. 
Here ]>leasure, like a llower, lies pale and wan, 
The wildest gohlet jxturs no more its stream, 
And sorrow with the sun's bright heam is 

gone, _ 
The world is weary — let it, let it dream ! 

To fragments dashed, my hate and rancor 
cease, [spreads, 

When storm no more its vengeful arm out- 
The moon its reconciling beams of pea(;e 
O'er e'en the faded leaves of roses sheds. 
As noiseless as a star, light like a tone, 
My soul within these places hovers round; 
It fain would [)enetrate, e'en as its own, 
Of human dreams the secret depths profound. 

Behind me, like a spy, my shadow creeps. 
Now stand I still before a dungeon's grate. 
O'er her too faithful son his country weeps. 
He bitterly his love did exi>iate. 
He sleeps — feels he the loss that bowed him 
down ? [anon 

Dreams he pei'haps of his oaks ? Dreams lu^ 
His brow is decked by victory's bright crown ? 
() God of frceclom, h^t him still dream on! 

How narrow is yon cot beside the stream ! 
Tbere inmxM'nce and hunger share our bed, 
The lord leaves to tlu^ countryman his dream, 
That it may save him from his waking dread ; 
With every grain tbat falls from jMorpheus's 

He sees aroun<l him golden cornfield beam, 
The narrow cottage to a world expands. 
God of want, O let the poor man dream ! 


At yon last house, upon the bench of stone, 
I'll beg a blessing, and repose awhile ; 
I love thee well, my child, but not alone, 
With freedom must thou ever share my smile. 
Thou'rt rocked by turtledoves in golden sky, 
I see alone the war-steed's eyeballs gleam ; 
Thou dream'st of butterflies, of eagles I : 
God of love, let my maiden dream ! 

Thou star, who break'st like Fortune through 

the clouds ! 
Thou night, with thy deep, silent, azure space, 
Let not the world, when bursting from Xight's 

Too soon gaze on my grief-distorted face ! 
The sun's first ray will but a tear reveal, 
And Freedom must give way to day's first 

Fell tyranny again will whet the steel, 
God of dreams, let us all still dream ! 

Transl. (>/" Alfred Baskkkville. 


As long as I'm a Protestant, 

I'm bounden to protest ; 
Come, every (ierman musicant, 

And liddle me his best ! 
You're singing of the "Free old Rhine;" 
But 1 say, ISTo, good comrades mine — 
The liliine could be 
Greatly more free. 
And that I do 2)rotest. 

I scarce had got iny christening o'ei", 

Or was ill breeclies dressed, 
P)Ut I began to shout and roar 

And mightily protest. 
And since that time I've never stopped, 
My protestations never dropped ; 
And blessed be they 
Who every way 
And everywhere protest. 

Tliere's one thing certain in my creed, 
And schism is all tin; rest — 


That who's a Protestiint indeed 

Forever must protest. 
What is the river Rhine to me ? 
For, from its source unto the sea, 
Men are not free, 
Whate'er they be. 
And that 1 do protest. 

And every man in reason grants 

AVhat always was confessed, 
As long as we are Protestants, 

We sternly must protest, 
And when tJu-y sing '' the Free old Rhine," 
Answer them, " No," good comrade mine — 
The Rhine could he 
Greatly more free, 
And that you shall protest. 


HESIOD, a Greek poet, a native and 
resident of Ascra, in Boeotia, at the foot of 
Mt. Helicon, one of the abodes of the 
Muses. Herodotus supposed that both 
Hesiod and Homer lived some four cen- 
turies before liis time, or about 850 B. c. 
Hesiod, then, must have lived two centu- 
ries later than David, and about a century 
and a half earlier than Isaiah ; and about 
a century before the foundation of Kome. 
Assuming that Hesiod and Homer were 
contemporaries, there is nothing to indi- 
cate that either of them knew anything of 
the other or of his works. Of Hesiod per- 
sonall}'- we know nothing except what may 
be gathered from almost incidental passages 
in his works. From thesse it would appear 
that his father, who had led a seafaring 
life, emigrated from il^:olia, to Ikeotia. 
Hesiod thus says to his brothei- Perses : 


witless Perses, thus for honest gain, 
Thus did our mutual fatlior plough the main. 
Erst from /Eolian Kynie's distant sliore 
Hither in sable ships liis course he bore ; 
Through the wide seas his venturous way he 

took ; 
No revenues, nor prosperous ease forsook. 
His wandering course from poverty began — 
The visitation sent from Heaven to man. 
In Ascra's wretched hamlet, at the feet 
Of Helicon, he fixed his humble seat: 
Ungenial clime — in wintry cold severe, 
And summer heat — and joyless tlirough the 


But the emigrant seems to liavo pros- 
pered in Ills new liome ; for lie hift a com- 
petent eslate to be sluircd between liis two 
sons. J'mses, tlie younger, seems to liave 
been a wild scapegrace, who at the outset 


got more tliiin liis proper share of the pat- 
rimony, and wlien lie had run through it 
tried, not unsuccessfully, to get hold of a 
part of that whicli had fallen to his elder 
brother Hesiod, who, notwithstanding, cher- 
ished a fondness for liis ne'er-do-well 
brother, and tiied to dissuade him from his 
evil ways, insinuating that these ^vere to be 
attributed to his having married au ex- 
travagant wife. Ilesiod himself seems to 
liave led a quiet life on his paternal acres, 
of the management of which he took good 
care ; but nevertheless devoting himself 
to what we should now call " literary 
work." Upon only one occasion did he 
ever leave his native district and venture 
across the sea ; and that was in order to 
be present at a musical contest which was 
to be held at Ciialcis, on the island of 
Eulxjea, now Egripo ; and he mentit)ns this 
mainly for the purpose of dissuading l*er- 
ses from doing anything of the kind. 

hksiod's one ska-voyage. 
If thy rash thoughts on morchandise be 

Lost (lobts ensnare or woeful luinger waste, 
Learn now the courses of the roaring sea, 
Thougli ships and voyages are strange to me. 
Ne'er o'er the sea's broad way my course I 

Save once from Aulis to tlie Eubo-an shore: 
From Aulis, wliere tlie mighty Argive host 
The winds awaiting, lingered on tlie coast, 
From sacred (Jreece assembled to destroy 
The guilty walls of beauty-blooming Troy. 

This voyage from Aulis to Euboea could 
liardly have been an adventurous one ; it 
was certaiidy a short one, for the distance 
from the mainland to the island, at their 
nearest approach, is only about forty yards. 



Here ends all that we are credibly told of 
the life of Hesiod ; though writers who 
lived a thousand years or more after him 
have invented sundry other incidents, 
among which is a contest between him and 
Homer for the supreme place in the divine 
art of song. 

The extant poems ascribed to Hesiod 
are: The Works and Days, \\\e^\\thQ\\t\{i\ij 
of which has never been questioned ; tlie 
Thcoiiony^ the authenticity of which has 
been disputed, but is almost universally 
admitted; the Shield of Hercules, which is 
})robabl_y spurious, although it is not at all 
unlike Ilesiod. Besides these, mention is 
made by later writers of several other 
poems attributed to Hesiod, which are no 
longer extant ; or at most only detached 
quotations from them. 

The Works and Days is in form an ad- 
monitory epistle from Hesiod to his 
brother Perses. It naturally divides itself 
into three parts, each containing some 
three or four hundred lines. The first 
part sets forth, by the aid of myth, fable, 
allegory, and proverbial sayings, the su])e- 
riority of worthy emulation over envying 
and unworthy strife ; of honest labor anil 
economy over idleness and prodigality. 
'J'lie second part consists of practical rules 
and hints as to husbandry. The third part 
is a kind of religious calendar of the months 
of the 3'ear, noticing the days of the month 
which are lucky or uiducky for the occu- 
j)ations of rural life. The extracts which 
follow arc from the translation by Elton. 


Sniiill ciirf l)t; his of w r;iiii;linjjj and dchato, 
For uiigatlicred food tlic gamers wait J 

nESIOD.— 4 

Who wants within tlu! Suminer'a plenty 

stored [hoard: 

Earth's kindly fruits and Coros's yearly 
With these replenished, at the hrawling bar, 
For other's wealth go instigate the war. 
But this thou niay'.st no more : let justice 

guide — 
Best boon of licavcn — and further strife decide. 

Not so we shared the patrimonial land, 
When greedy pillage filled thy grasping 

hand ; [thee, 

The bribe-devouring judges, smoothed by 
The sentence willed, and stamped the false 

fools and blind ! to wliose misguided soul 
Unknown how far the half exceeds the whole ; 
Unknown the good that healthful mallows 

And asphodel — the daintiest of the field. 

Works and Days. 


The Sire who rules the earth and sways the pole 
Had said — and laughter filled his secret soul. 
He bade the crippled god his best obey, 
And mould with tempering water plastic clay ; 
With human nerve and human voice invest 
The limbs elastic, and the breathing breast ; 
Fair as the blooming goddesses above — 
A virgin's likeness with the looks of love. 
He bade Minerva teach the skill that sheds 
A thousand colors in the gliding threads ; 
He called the magic of love's golden Queen 
To breathe around a witchery of mien, 
And eager ])assion's never-sated ilame. 
And cares of dress that prey upon the frame ; 
Bade Hermes last endue with craft refined 
Of treacherous manners, and a shameless mind; 
Adored Persuasion and the Graces young, 
Her tapered limbs with golden jewels hung; 
Kound her fair brow the lovely-tressed Hours 
A golden garland twined of Springs purpureal 
flowers. [given, 

The name of Pandora to the maid was 



Por all the gods conforrod a gifted grace 
To crown this mischief of the mortal race. 
The Sire commands the winged herald bear 
The finished nymph — the inextricable snare. 
To Epimetheus was the present brought : 
Prometheus's warning vanished from his 

That he disclaim each offering from the skies, 
And straight restore, lest ill to man should rise. 
But he received, and conscious knew too late 
The invidious gift, and felt the curse of Fate. 

The woman's hands an amjde casket bear ; 
She lifts the lid — she scatters ills in air ; 
Hope sole remained within, nor took her flight 
Beneath the casket's verg;e concealed from sight. 
The unbroken cell with closing lid the maid 
Sealed, and the Cloud-Assembler's voice obej^ed. 
Issued the rest, in quick dispersion hurled. 
And woes innumerous roamed the breathing 

world : 
With ills the land is rife, with ills the sea ; 
Diseases haunt our frail humanity ; 
Self-wandering through the noon, the night, 

they glide 
Voiceless — a voice the Power all-wise denied. 
Know, then, this awful truth : It is not given 
To elude the wisdom of omniscient Heaven. 

Wor/cs and Days. 


Strangers to ill, they Nature's banquets proved ; 
Jtich in earth's fruits, and of the blest beloved. 
They sank in death, as ojtiate slumber stole 
Soft o'er the sense, and whelmed the willing 

Theirs was each good : the grain-exuberant soil 
J'onred its fid! harvest uiicoin|)el]cd by toil ; 
'I'he virtuous many dwelt in common l)lest, 
And all uiieiivyiiig shared wliat all in peace 


ITor^.s- a?id Days. 

Invisible, the gods are ever nii^h, 
]*ass throngli I lie midst, and lieiid the all-see- 
ing eye. 



Who on oaoh othorprey, who wrest *lio riglit — 
Awt'less of lunivcii's ruvoiige — are open to their 

sight ; 
For thrice ten th()Us:in<l holy da'inons rove 
Tlie nurtnring eiirtli — the delegates of Jove; 
Hovering, tlicy glide to earth's extremest 

honiid ; 
A cloud aerial veils their forms aronnd : 
(Jnardians of man, their glance alike surve3's 
The upright judgments and the unrighteous 


JVor/^•s (171(1 Days. 


Let no fair woman, robed in loose array, 
That sj)eaks the wanton, tempt thy feet astray ; 
Who soft demands if thine abode })e near, 
And blandly lisps and murmurs in thine ear. 
Thy slippery trust the charmer shall beguile, 
For lo ! the thief is ambushed in lier smile. 
Jiut choose thy wife from those that round thee 
dwell, [well. 

Weighing — lest neighbors jeer — thy choice full 
Than wife that's good man finds no greater 

But feast-frequenting mates are simply bane; 
Such, without lire, a stout man's frame con- 
And to crude old age bring his manhood's 

Works and Days. 


When, Atlas-born, the IMeiad stars arise, 
liefore the sun above the dawning skies, 
'Tis time to reap; and when thej'^ sink below 
The morn-illumined west, 'tis time to sow. 
Know, too, they set, immerged into the sun, 
While forty days entire their circle run ; 
And with the lapse of the revolving year, 
When sharpene<l is the sickle, reapi>ear: 
Law of the fields, and known to every swain 
A\'ho turns the labored soil beside the main, 
( >r who, remote from billowy ocean's gales, 
7 y? 


Tills the rich glebe of inland-winding v.ilo;^>. 
Works and Days. 


Beware the January month ; beware, 
Those hurtful days, the keenly piercing air 
Which flays the steers, while frosts their hor- 
rors cast. 
Congeal the ground, and sharpen every blast. 
From Thracia's courser-teeming region sweeps 
The northern wind; and, breathing on the 
deeps, [roars 

Heaves wide the troubled surge : earth echoing 
From the deep forests and the sea-beat shores. 
He from the mountain-top, with shattering 
stroke, [oak 

Rends the broad pine, and many a branching 
Hurls thwart the glen, when sudden, from on 

With headlong fury rushing down the sky, 
The whirlwind stoops to earth ; tlien deepening 

Swells the loud storm, and all the boundless 

woods resound. 
The beasts their cowering tails with tremb- 
ling fold. 
And shrink and shudder at the gusty cold. 
Though thick the hairy coat, tlie shaggy skin. 
Yet that all-chilling breatli sliall pierce within. 
Not his rough hide tlu^ ox can then avail. 
The long-haired goat defenseless feels the gale; 
Yet vain the north-wind's rushing strength to 

Tlie Hock, with sheltering fleeces fenced around. 

And now the horned and unhorned kind, 
AVliose lair is in the wood, sore famished grind 
Their sounding jaws, and frozen and quaking 
fly, [on high ; 

Where tlie oaks llic nionntain dells embranch 
They seelc to crouch in thickets of the glen, 
( )r lurk deep-sheltered in the de!i. 
Like aged Tueii wlio ])ropped on crutches, tread 
Tottering, with broken strength and stooping 
head — 



So move tlio beasts of eartli, and, crooi)iiitT low, 
tSliuii the white flakes, and dread tlie flriftiug 

Wor/xS 'did JJnys. 

Each of the thirty days which composed 
the original Greek month Avas Incky or 
unhicky — some for people in general, some 
for particular classes. Thus, the fourth 
was lucky for marriages, because it was 
sacred to Aplirodite and Hermes ; the fifth 
was very unlucky, because on it was born 
llorcus, the deity who punishes false- 
swearing; the sixth was unlucky for mar- 
riagesv because it was the birtliday of the 
virgin goddess Artemis ; the seventh was 
especially lucky, because it was the birth- 
day of Hermes ; and so on. Here are a few 
of the days wliich were of special good 
omen to husbandmen, for whom Hesiod 
was more particularly writing : 


The eij^hth, nor less the nintli, witli favoring 
skies [tcrprise ; 

Speeds of tlie increasing month eacli rustic en- 
And on the eleventh let thy flocks be shorn, 
And on the twelfth be reaped thy golden corn : 
]>()th days are good — yet is the twelfth confest 
More fortunate, with fairer omen blest: 
On this the air-suspending spider treads, 
In tlu^ full noon, his line and self-spun threads. 
And the wise emmet, tracking dark the plain. 
Heaps provident the store of golden grain : 
On this let careful wonnui's nimble hand 
Throw first the shuttle, and the web expand. 
W^orks and JJ((i/s. 

Interspersed throughout the Works and 
Daifs are wise maxims, terse aphorisms, 
and proverbial sayings, which doubtless 
wore household words in Boeotia. Thus : 



Hand work will best uncertain fortune mend. 

Famine evermore 
Is natural consort to the idle boor. 

Little to little added, if oft done, 

In small time makes a good possession. 

The summer day 
Endures not ever : toil ye while ye may. 

Ever with loss the putter-off contends. 

Tlie morn the third jiart of thy work doth gain ; 
The morn makes short thy way, makes short 
thy pain. 

When broached, or at the lees, no care be thine 
To save thy cask ; but spare the middle wine. 

When on your home falls unforeseen distress, 
Half-clothed come neighbors ; kinsmen stay to 

Lo ! the best treasure is a frugal tongue ; 
The lips of moderate speech with grace are 

No rumor wholly dies, once bruited wide ; 
But deathless like a goddess doth abide. 

The fool iirst suffers, and is after wise. 

Often tlu! crimes of one destructive fall 
Tile crimes of one are visited on all. 

'V\\v. Theo(/oni/ ^ Origin of the Gods," 
Ihougli perhaps a better title would be 
Cosnioi/oni/, " Oiigiii of the Universe "), is 
a i)oeni of loftier aim than the Workx and 
Jjdi/H. It was for ages the text-book of 
the Greek eult. Mueli of it indeed seems 
tiivial or absurd when vieweil from the 
standpoint of our own times. But tlieie 
are jxirtions of it which rise to the h)ftiest 
lieiglits of ])oetry. Siieli is the story of 
I'ronielhcus, wlio, aecoiding to the llesi- 
odiu legend, had twiei; deceived Zeus — the 

IIKSUH).— 10 

last time by stealing from Olympus the 
sacred lire which Zeus had denied t(j man 
after the first fraud. 


Zeus, the lirst fraud remembering, from that 

The strengtli of unexliausted ih-e denied 
To all the dwellers upon eartli. Hut liim 
Did Troinetheus, the frieiul of ni;in, Ijeguile : 
The far-seen splendor in a hollow reed 
lie stole of inexh;iustihle Ihune. AndtluMi 
Kesentmeiit stung the Thunderer's inmost soiii, 
And his lieart ehafed witli anger when he s;iw 
The lire f;ir-gleaniing in the midst of men. 
Straight for the llanu; purloined devised Ik; 

ill. . . . 

Prometheus, versed 
In various wiles, lie hound with fettering eluiins 
Indissoluble, chains of gulling weight, 
Midway a C(dumn. Down he sent horn high 
The broad-winged eagle : Slu; his liver gorged 
Immortal : for it sprang with life, and grew 
In the night season, and the waste repaired 
Of wluit by daj^ the bird of spreading wing 

devoured. . . . 
Know thiit it is not given thee to deceive 
The god, nor yi-t elude the onuiiscient mind ; 
For not Prometheus, void of blame to man, 
Could 'sc;ij»e the burden of oppressive wrath ; 
And vain liis various wisdom — vain to free 
From pangs, or burst the inextrical)le chain. 

Another fine passage is that which de- 
scribes Asteiia — the Star-CJoddess — who 
gives valor to the soldier, wisdom to the 
ruler, dexterity to the contestants in the 
sacred games, and skill to charioteers and 


\\ lii'u mailcil men arise 
To deadly battles, comes the goddess prompt 

HESIOD.— 11 

To whom she wills, bids rapid victory 
Await them, and extends the wreath of fame. 
She sits upon the sacred judgment-seat 
Of venerable rulers. She is found 
Propitious when in solemn games the youth 
Contending strive : there is the goddess nigh 
With succor. He whose hardiment and strength 
Victorious prove, with ease the graceful palm 
Achieving, joyous o'er his father's age 
Slieds a bright gleam of glory. She is known 
To them propitious who the fiery steed 
Rein in the course ; and them who laboring 

Through the blue waste the untrackable way. 


But the grandest passage in the Tlieo- 
gony is that which describes tlie victory of 
Zeus over the rebel Titans, and the liuii- 
dred-headed monster Typhosus — half- 
human, half-serpent. This must have 
chanted itself in the soul of Milton as he 
meditated the warfare in heaven, in Para- 
due Lost: 


All on that da}^ roused infinite the war. 

Female and male : the- Titan deities, 

The gods from Kronos sprung, and those whom 

From subterranean gloom released to light — 
Terrible, strong, of force enormous. Uurst 
A Imiidred arms from all llicir shoulders huge ; 
I'Voiii al| their shoulders lifty lieads upspraiig 
O'er limbs of sinewy mould. They then ar- 
Against the Titans in fell combat stood, 
And in their nervous arms wield(>d aloft 
Precipitous rocks. On the other side alert 
'y)}i-' Titans^ phalanx closed. Then hands pf 

f^oined prowess, and displayed the works of 

Tremendous then tlio immeasureable sea 

nESIOD.— 12 

Roarod ; oarth rosoumlcd, tlio witlo lioavcns 

Groaned shuddering; from its base ()lyinj)us 

Reeled to the violence of the gods; the shock 
Of deep Cijncussion rocked the dark abyss 
Remote of Tartarus: the shrilling din 
Of hollow tram])liiigs and strong battle-strokes, 
And measureless uproar of wild pursuit. 
So they reciprocal their weapons hurled 
Groan-scattering ; and the shout of either host, 
Burst in resounding ardor to the stars 
Of heaven ; with mighty war-cries either host 
Encountering closed. Nor longer then did 

Curb his full power ; but instant in his soul 
There grew dilated strength, and it was filled 
With his omnipotence. At once he loosed 
His whole of might, and put forth all the god. 
The vaulted sky, the mount Olympian flashed 
With his continual presence ; for he passed 
Incessant forth, and scattered fires on fires. 
Hurled from his mighty grasp the lightnings 

Reiterated swift ; the whirling flash 
Cast sacred splendor, and the thunderbolt 
Fell. Roared around the nurture-yielding 

In conflagration ; for on either side 
The immensity of forests crackling blazed; 
Yea, the broad earth burned red, the streams 

that mix 
With ocean, and the deserts of the sea. 
Round and around the Titan brood of earth 
Rolled the hot vapor of its fiery surge, 
The liquid heat air's pure expanse divine 
Suffused ; tlu; radiance keen of quivering flame 
That shot from writhen lightnings, each dim 

orb — 
Strong though they were — intolerable smote. 
And scorched their blasted vision. Througli 

the void 
Of Erebus the preternatural glare 
Spread mingling fire with darkness. But to see 

nESIOD.— 1:3 

Witli Imman eye, and liear with ear of man, 
Had been as if midway the spacious heaven 
Shocked hurtling M-itli earth, e'en as nether 

Crashed from the centre, and the wreck of 

Fell ruinous from high. So vast the din 
When, gods encountering gods, the clang of 

Commingled, and the tumult roared from 

heaven. 2Vteo{;o7iy. 

The Titans, overwlielmed, were driven 
to Tartarus ; " as far beneath, under the 
earth, as lieaven is from earth," wliere tliey 
were imprisimed with the hundred-handed 
giants set over them as Keepers, and Day 
and Night acting as janitors in fi'ontof the 
brazen threshold. But tlie hundi-ed-headed, 
firedjreathing, nian-serj)ent, monster Ty- 
phceus had yet to be subdued. 


Intuitive and vigilant and strong, 
Zeus thundered. Instantaneous all around 
Karth reeled with horrible crush ; the lirmament 
Roared of high heaven, the ocean streams, and 

And uttermost caverns. While the king in 

Uprose ; beneath his everlasting feet 
Trembled Olympus ; groaned the steadfast 

From either side a btu'ning radiance caught 
The darkly rolling ocean, from the Hash 
( )f light, and the monster's darted tiame, 
Hot thunder-bolts, and lilasts of iituy winds, 
(ilowed earth, air, sea; tlie bilious heaved on 

high, [side 

Foamed rounrl Ihe shores, and dashed on every 
JiiMieath the rnsli of gods, ('oncussion wild 
And nn;ippe:isid)Ie arose ; aghast 
The gloomy monarch of the infernal dead 


IIKSIOD. — 14 

'rrfiiiMcd ; the siili-'l ar(;ircan Titans lujai'd, 
K'eii \vlicr(! tlicy .stood, and Kioiios in the 

midst — 
T]\L'y heard uppallud the unextin<;iushed rage 
Of tumult and tlu^ din of dn-adrul war. 

Now wlieii tlie god — tlio fulness of his might 
Gatliering at once — liad grasped his radiant 

arms — 
Tlie glowing thunderbolt and Idckering jlame — 
He from the summit of tlie Olympian mount 
Leapt at a hound, and smote liim. Hissed at 

The liorrihle monster's heads eiu)rmons, seorched 
In one conllagi-ant hlaze. When thus the god 
Had quelh'd him, tliumh-r-smitten, mangled, 
Vroiw ^ [sho(,k. 

He fell; heneatli his weight earth groaning 
Flame from tlie lightning-stricken J)r<Hiigy 
Flashed 'mid the mountain hollows, ruiTL'ed. 
dark, [intense, 

Where he fell smitten. JJroad earth glowed 
From that unbounded vapor, and dissolved. 
As fusile tin, b}^ art of youths, above 
The wide-brimmed vase up-bubbling, foams 

with heat. 
Or iron, hardest of tlie mine, sulidui'd 
By burning flame, amid the mountain dells 
Melts in the sacred caves beneath the liamls 
Of Vulcan — so earth melted in the glare 
Of blazing tire. Zeus down wide Hell's abyss 
His victims hurled, in bitterness of soul. 

If Milton lias cauglit inspiration from 
these strains of llesiod, so tlie translator 
of the Thi'o<jony caught tlie majestic sweep 
of Paradise Lo^f. It wcnild be hard to say 
which is the nobler song. Hesiod's celes- 
tial combat is in general better managed 
than Milton's. We have in liim no mailed 
gods and demi-gods fighting with sword, 
spear and cannon ; no tearing up moun- 
tains by the roots and hurling them at each 



other ; they only fling " precipitous rocks." 
On the other hand, Hesiocl makes omni- 
potent Zeus "loosen his whole of might ; " 
while in Milton tlie conquering vSon puts 
fortli only lialf his strength. Above all, in 
Ilesiod there is nothing at all comparable 
to the two supreme lines of Milton • 

''A-ttended by ten thousand thousand saints 
He onward came — far off his coming shone." 
J 06 


IIEYLIN, ]*ETEU, ail English clergyman 
uiitl author, born near Oxford in IGOO; 
died in IGG'J. lie took the Royalist side 
in the civil war, and was despoiled by the 
Parliament, lie wrote nearly forty sepa- 
rate works, the most important of whicli 
are, Microcosmw<^ or a JJeseription of the 
Great World (lGt]"2), and A History of the 
lief or mat ion. In 1()25 he made a tour in 
France, of which he gives a lively narra- 
tive in his \\>yaje of France. 

rnic KKKxon i-koplk and theiu languagk. 

Xlie jirosent French is nothing hut an old 
Guul moulded into a new name ; as rash he is, 
as liead-strong, and as hare-hrained. A nation 
whom you sludl win with a feather, and lose 
witli a straw; upon the first siglit of liim, you 
shall have him as familiar as your sleep, or 
the necessity of hreathing. In one hour's 
conference you may endear him to you, in the 
second unhutton him, the third ]iu)nps him 
dry of all Jus s(!crets, and he gives them you as 
faithfully as if you were his gliostly father, 
and hound to conceal them snh tti(/illo coiifes- 
tiliniis '* under the seal of confession " — when 
you have learned this, jou may lay him aside, 
for he is no longer serviceable. If you have 
any humor in holding him in a further ac- 
(juaintance — a favor which he confesseth, and 
1 believe him, he is unworthy of — himself will 
make the first separation : he hath said over 
his lesson now unto you, and now must find 
out somebody else to whom to repeat it. Fare 
liim well; he is a garment whom I would be 
loath to wear al)ove two days together, for in 
that time he will be threadbare. l^\iuiUiare 
est hoininis omnia sibi rcmittere, "it is usual 
for men to overlook their own faults," saith 
Velleius of all; it holdeth most properly in 
this people. He is very kinddiearted to him- 
self, and thinketh himself as free from wants 


as he is full ; so much he hath m him the 
nature of a Chinese, that he thinketh all men 
blind but himself. In this private self-conceit- 
edness he hateth the Spaniard, loveth not the 
English, and contemneth the German ; himself 
is the only courtier and complete gentleman, 
but it is his own glass which he seeth in. Out 
of this conceit of his own excellency, and 
partly out of a shallowness of brain, he is 
very liable to exceptions ; the least distaste 
that can be draweth his sword, and a minute's 
pause sheatheth it to your hand: afterwards, 
if you beat him into better manners, he shall 
take it kindly, and cry serviteur. In this one 
thing they are wonderfully like the devil ; 
meekness or submission makes them insolent ; 
a little resistance putteth them to their heels, 
or makes them your spaniels. In a word — 
for I have held him too long — he is a walking 
vanity in a new fashion. 

The French language is, indeed, very sweet 
and delectable : it is cleared of all harshness, 
by the cutting and leaving out of the conson- 
ants, which maketh it fall off the tongue very 
volubly ; yet, in my opinion, it is rather ele- 
gant than copious ; and, therefore, is much 
troubled for want of words to find out para- 
phrases. It expresseth very much of itself in 
the action ; the head, body, and shoulders con- 
cur all in the pronouncing of it ; and he that 
hopeth to speak it with a good grace, must 
have something in him of the mimic. It is 
enriclicd with a full number of significant 
proverbs, which is a great helj) to the French 
liuinor in scroifing; and very full of courtship, 
which maketh all the people coini)linu>ntal. 
The poorest cobbler in the village hath his 
court cringes and his C(fH hcnife de rour, his 
court holy- water, as perfectly as the I'rinco of 



IIEYSE, JoHANN LuDWiG Paul, aGei- 

inaii poet and novelist, born at Berlin, in 
1830. His father was Karl Wilhelni l.ud- 
wig Heyse, a })liilologist of distinction. He 
was edncated at Berlin and at Bonn. 
In 1852 he took his degree. He then 
travelled in Switzerland and Italy, for the 
j)nrpose of studying the Romance tongues 
from manuscripts in the ])nblic libi'aric^s. 
In 1854 he was called to Munich by King 
Maximilian of Bavaria. Here he nuirried 
the daughter of the liistorian Kugler, and 
devoted liimself entirely to literary work. 
Among his dramatic works are FraneiHca 
da Rimini (1850), Meleager (1854), The 
Saline Women (1859), Ehrenschuldeyi 
(^Dehts oflfonoi-}, Lady Lueretia, and Die 
Uochzeit auf dem Avenfin (The Marriaye 
on the Aventine^ (1886) ; among his poems. 
The Brofhers (1852), Thekia (1858), and 
Novellenin Versen (^Tales in l^en^e} (1808.) 
The Buch der Frennd»chaft (^Book of 
Friendship (1854), Sammlunqen Novellen 
(l855-59),and Moralische Novellen (1870), 
are collections of prose sketches. Among 
his novels are The ChiUh-en of the World 
(187'>), Tlie Romance of the Canoness, In 
Paradise, and The Witch of the Coast. 
Collections of his shorter tales have been 
translated into English under the titles 
Barbarossa and other Tales, and The Bead 
Lake and other Tales. Heyse has also 
written on Sj)anish, French, and Italian 
literature, aiul has published the Italien- 
isehe Liederbuch (1860), Spanische Lieder- 
bueh (1852), and Antoloyia del Moderni 
Poeti Italiani (1868.) 



No tree witli tapers lit, no Cliristmas J03', 
We sit alone in silence, side by side. 
And wherefore ? Each one knows, 3'^et each 
will hide ; 
Three little graves afar our thoughts employ. 
This feast for us is silent ; childisli toy, 

Nor Christmas bells, nor mirth with us abide, 
For ever round our hearth there seems to 
The pale sad semblance of each darling boy. 
Ah well! Although we oft must quail and 
And quaff in haste the bitter cup of pain. 
One t)itterer still might yet be ours to drinlv, 
And this our very life-blood's fouTit would 

And life itself would ebb if 'tween us twain, 
True hearts fast-bound, once broken were the 

I'd many talents in the olden daj'S, 

Could cut out tinsel stars aiul taj)ers light, 

And when the Christmas-tree was sparkling 
Would ring the eager watchers in to gaze. 
Th(( well-built fortress I could bodly raze, 

AV'ith leaden soldiers marching, after light 

Store of sweet anununition bring to sight 
From bom])-proof bastions, spreading glad 

1 bad a coinrad(> then, I loved him well. 

As were he part of me, how great a part ! 

Ill many w:irs we fought, my gallant boy; 
irii'll never hear again the Christmas bell. 

Nor rush to nu; with full and merry heart, 
Clapping his little hands with childish joy. 

Yet wo to Christmas feast, we, too, wore bid, 
Not the green Northern lir decked out with 


/Vii iivciiuc of cyiircss, bhick ;is iiiglit, 
UcldW t]ir silent ("est ills pyniniid. 
Slowly \vr waiMliTcd lluTo tlic toinl)s amid, 
And rcud the li>n,L,'-for<,'(»tt«'ii iiiiiiifs; in light 
Tlioy, too, wiTu wounded, ;ui<l Ikivc jiassed 
from sight. 
And the Kind inother-eartli tlieir wounds lias 

hi. I. 
]'';ii', tar nhove tlie misty Mile apjiears 

The ( 'aiuloi's calm giant head, grown gray 
W'alehing tlio generations rise and fall, 
"Noll plucked two violets from a grave, and 
lUirst from your oyes, list'iiing, while loud 
The hirds were singing on tlm gar(h;n wall. 
I'rans. ofW. L. Tollemaciik. 


]'>inther with tender thoughts our hearts are 

I'jre we surrender thee to thy last dwelling; 
The strength seren(>, u[)on thine image seen, 
( )f hop(! is tcdling. 

><oi.le thou wert — though not wdiere castles 

IJiit where the wretched dwell, was felt thy 

The undefended, the jioor, untended. 
Thou lias befriended. 

Thou chosen liero, whom in pride bewailing — 
Higli-soul'd and fountain of our joy unfailing ; 
Ah, how sad and faint, breathing ne'er a plaint, 
Saw we thee paling. 

The chain is riven, life has fill'd its measure, 
J)eath now has given rest from })aiii and 

Sleep ! — we will follow on some peaceful morrow 
When we have striven I — 

The Children of the World. 


The most difficult thing in life seems to me 
to recognize which is the highest of two conflict- 


iug duties, aiul tliose to whom it is easiest must 
have, I tliink, not only tlie most liappiuess but 
genius. If goodness were always quite simple, 
what could be more delightful than to be good 
always ? It is, however, a sad thing, when the 
understanding and the affections are at vari- 
ance, when one has to stop and consider which 
of two courses is morally incumbent on one, and 
without always finding a solution ; it is sad, 
because it shakes one's faith in that which 
ought to be the surest of guides, namely, in 
one's own conscience ; and let one choose what 
he will, it leaves in his mind a sting, something 
to regret. We are all deeply convinced that it 
is our duty not to injure anyone. It is just as 
much the law of the Gospel as our deepest con- 
viction which makes us feel that we cannot 
stand aloof from the suffering of the rest of the 
worhl, and wliich, tlierefore, bids each individual 
strive to lessen the universal misery by sparing 
his neighbors ; and yet as each individual 
strives for 2>erfection, for the complete growth 
and blossoming of his powers, ho seldom suc- 
ceeds without harnung others ; just as a tree in 
the middle of a wood can only have as much 
light and air as his fellow-trees will givo^up to 
him. Thus many a one ]>ines and withei-s away 
consciously, knowing what his end must be, 
and yet without being able to move; and that 
when there is no question of injuring any one, 
when it is simply a })rejudioe which decides 
that it is not advisable to grow beyond a certain 
lieight and bn^adth, and that those who pre- 
sume to do so, will be struck by lightning. 
The Children' of the World. 


At the head of his regiment, which has left 
nearly half its inimber on the cold ground at 
]>azeillcs and Orleans, and for that reason has 
to accept a double tribute of flowers from the 
windows on the right and left, rides ('aptaiu 
von Schuetz, his lank figure seated bolt upright 


ill the siuMlc, liis breast blazing with onh-is, 
jiiul his whtih; jn-rsoii covered from head to f(»ot 
with tlie buiKiiiets wliich, aimed at, tlie rider, 
liave fallen (d'f and been handed ii]) t(» him l>y 
tlie buys that run alon^ at his side, ile has 
decorated his sword with thein, and his helmet, 
and his i)istols, and his liorse's trappings, al- 
though usually he is no great atlmirer of 
ilowers. Nor does he do this now for his own 
glorification or pleasure. But he knows that, 
at a window in the first story of that stately 
liouse over yonder, there sits a woman pre- 
maturely <dd, but whose cheeks, usually so 
jiale, wear a joyous flush to-day, and whose 
eyes,^ grown faded through long suffering, 
beam once more with something of the bright- 
ness and hopefulness of youth. It is to this 
woman tliat he wants to show himself in his 
covering of flowers. Heretofore, she has worn 
a crown of thorns ; now he wants to show lier 
the promising future he has won for liimself 
and licr. But she see« him from a distance 
only. When the good, honest, yellow-leather- 
colored face, with its black imperial, rides b}', 
close to the house, her eyes are so bedim med 
by tears that she only sees, as if through a 
vail, how lie lowers his sword to her in salute, 
and bowS slightly with his garlanded helmet. 
The wreath which she has held ready for him 
falls from her trembling hand over the railing 
upon the heads of the densely packed crowd 
below. But they seem to know for whom it is 
intended. In a second twenty hands have 
helped to pass it along to him, and now it is 
handed up to the rider, who lets all the others 
slide off his sword so that this one alone shall 
be wound al>out it. 

Not far behind this brave soldier rides an- 
other, upon whom, likewise, the eyes of the 
women and girls in the windows gaze with 
pleasure, though he is a stranger to them all, 
and, for his part, very rarely lets his dark eyes 
rest on any of these blooming faces. For who 
8 ^ "3 


iri tliere here vvlioin ho cares to seek ? And 
whose face would he be glad to see unexpected- 
ly ? It was only with great reluctance and in 
order not to offend Schuetz, who asked it of 
hiui as a particular proof of fi-iendship, that he 
finally consented to take part in the entrance 
of the troops, and to visit once more the city 
which had so many bitter associations for him. 
These last two years — what a different man 
they had made of him ! And yet — althougli 
he was firmly convinced that the source of 
every joy was dried up in his innermost heart, 
and that henceforth nothing was left to him 
but a barren satisfaction at duties conscien- 
tiously fulfilled — even he could not altogether 
escape the festal mood of this marvelous hour. 
His handsome face, made bolder and keener by 
the hardshi[)s of war, lost the sad, hard ex- 
pression which had never been absent from it 
during the vrhole year ; a bright determina- 
tion, a quiet earnestness, beamed from his eyes. 
As he rode through the triumphal avenue 
strewn with flowers, amid the chime of bells 
and the wildi'st shouts of joy, he lost the con- 
sciousness of his own hopeless lot, and became 
merged, as it were, in the great, pervading 
spirit of a unique and sublime festival, which 
would never come again ; and to take' part in 
wliich, with the Ii'on Cross on his breast, and 
lionorable, scarcely healed wounds underneath, 
was a privilege which might well be thought 
to compensate for all the lost bliss of a young 
life. — In Paradise 



HEYWOOI),TiF()MAs, ail Englisli actor, 
dramatist and poet, born about lilSO; died 
about lOoO. Of his personal history little 
is known beyond wliat may be gathered 
from casual notices in his own works, lie 
says that he had "an entire hand, or at 
least a main finger," in 220 ])lays, of which 
only 28 have been jireserved. lie also 
wrote several pi'ose Avorks. He gives an 
account of tile nniltifarious sources from 
whicli \io had gathered the material for his 
(llamas : 


To <;ive content to this most curious ago 

'I'lu' <;o(ls tliciiisclves we've brought down to tlie 

And iigincd them in jdanets ; made even Hell 
Deliver uj) tlie Furicss, l>y no sp(;ll 
Saving tlie Muse's rapture; furtlier we 
Hav(! trailieked l)y their lielp ; no history 
AV'e hav(! left unrilled ; <iur jxtns have been 

As well in ojx'Tiing each hid manuscript 
As tracks more vulgar, wliether read or sung 
111 our <lomestic or more foreign tongue. 
Of fairies, elves, nymphs of tlie sea and land, 
"^riie lawns, tlie gnjves, no iiumb'.'r can be 

Which we have not given fecit to. 

The first complete collection of Hey- 
wood's extant dramatic works, in six vol- 
umes, was made in 1874. Tlie best of his 
plays are A Woman Killed tvith KimlneHa^ 
The Four London ^ Prentices^ and Jjoves 
Mistress. From the last of these we take 
the descripiion of Psyche. The interlocu- 
tors are Admetus, and Astioche and i'e- 
trea, sisters of Psyche. 



Adm. — Welcome to both in one ! Oh can you 

What fate your sister hath ? 

Ast. and Pet. — Psyche is well. 

Adm. — So among mortals it is often said 
Children and friends are well when they are 

Art. — But Psyche lives, and on her breath 

Delights that far surmount all earthly joy : 
Music, sweet voices, and ambrosial fare ; 
AVinds, and the light-winged creatures of the 

Clear-channeled rivers, springs, and flowery 

Are proud when Psyche wantons on their 

When Psyche on their rich embroidery treads, 
When Psyche gikls them crystal with her 

We have but seen our sister, and behold! 
She sends us with nnr laps fnll-l)rimmed with 


Among Ileywood's latiM- poems is The 
H'lerarch]! of A)i;/<'l.^, in which tlie famous 
dramatists of the ago arc thus mentioned: 


Mellifluous Shakespeare, whose melodious quill 
Commanded niirtli or passion, was but Will ^ 
And famous Jonson, though liis learned pen 
lie dipped in Castaly, is still but Jicii. 
Fb^tcher and Webster, of that learned j)ack 
None of the nu^anest, were but ,lnck\ 
Dekker but Tom^ nor May nor Middleton ; 
And he's but now Jack Ford that once was 

song: pack, c^Louns, away. 
Pack, clon<ls, away, and web-ome day, 

Witli night w(^ banish sorrow. 
Sweet air, blow soft, mount lark aloft. 

To give my love good-morrow. 


Wings from tlio wind to jjIcusc Ikt inind, 

Notes from tlic lurk I "11 i)orro\v. 
Bird, pruno thy wing ! iiightingjile, sing, 
To give m}^ lov(( good-morrow ! 
To give my love good-morrow, 
Notes from them all I'll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin-redbreast ! 

Sing, birds, in every furrow! 
And from eacrh bill let music shrill 

(live my fair love good-morrow ! 
l)luck-bird and thrush, in every busli. 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow; 
You j»retty elves, amongst yourselves, 

Sing my fair love good-njorrow ! 
To give my love good-morrow. 
Sing, birds, in every furrow. 

Scattered through Ileywood's dniinas 
are many exquisite sougs, and sonieliuies, 
as in the poem, Searcli after God, lie rises 
to a lofty pitch : 


I souglit thee round about. Thou, my God ! 

Jn thine abode : 
1 said unto the earth, "■ Speak, art thou lie ? " 

She answered me, 
"I am not." I inquired of creatures all. 

In general 
(Contained therein. Thej- with one voice pro- 
That none amongst them challenged sudi a 


I asked the seas and all the deeps below, 

iMy Clod to know; 
I asked the ve[)tiles and whatever is 

In the abyss ; 
Even froni the shrimp to the leviathan 

In(juiry ran : 
But in those deserts which no line can sound 
Tlie God I sought for was not to be found. 

I asked tlie air if that were He; but lo ! 
It told nio « No ! " 


I, from the towering eagle to the wren 

Demanded then, 
If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were such, 

But they all — much 
Offended, with my question — in full choir, 
" To find thy God thou must look higher." 
Answered, '■ To hud thy God thou must look 

I asked the heavens sun, moon and stars ; hut 

Saul, " We obey 
The God thou soekest." I asked what oye or ear 

Could see or hear ; 
What in the world I might descry or know, 

Above, below ; 
With an unanimous voice all these things said, 
"We are not God, but we by Him were made.'^ 

I asked the woi'ld's great universal mass 

If that God was ; 
Which with a mighty and strong voice replied, 

As stupefied, 
" I am not He, O man ! for know that I 

By Him on high 
Was fashioned first of nothing; thus instated 
And swayed by Him by whom 1 was created." 

I sought the Court ; but smootli-tongued flat- 
tery there 

Deceived each ear ; 
In the thronged city there was selling, buying, 

Swearing and lying ; 
In the country, craft in sinij)leness arrayed : 

And then I said, 
*'Vain is my search, although my ])ains be 

great ; 
Where my God is there can be no deceit." 

A scrutiny within myself I tlien 

Even thus began : 
" man, what art tliou ? " What more could I 

Than, " Dust and clay. 
Frail mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast 

That cannot last ; 


Enthroiie«l to-day, to-morrow in an nni, 
Formed from that i-artli to wliicli i mitsl re- 

1 asked myself wliat (Iiis great, (lod miglit Ijc; 

thai fashioned nu' ; 
I answered — "The All-potent, Sole,, 

Surpassing sense, 
l/nspeakal)le, Inscrutable, Eternal 

Ijord over all ; 
Tlie only Terrible, Just, Strong, and True, 
Who hatli no end, and no beginning knew. 

" ]Ie is tho well of life ; for lie doth give 

'J'o all that live 
l>oth breath ami being; He is the creator 

lioth of the water, 
Earth, air, ami fire. Of all things that subsist 

He hath the list ; 
Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims, 
He keej)s the scroll, and calls them by their 

And now, my God, b}' thine illumining grace. 

Thy glorious face, 
(So far forth as it may discovered be), 

IMethinks I see ; 
And though invisible and infinite, 

To human sight. 
Thou, m thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest 
In which, to our weak sense, thou comest near- 

Oh, make us apt to seek, and quick to find, 

Thou God most kind ! 
Give us love, hope, and faith in Thee to trust 

Thou God most just ! 
Remit all our offences, we entreat, 

INIost good ! most great ! 
Grant that our willing though unworthy quest 
May, through thy grace, adu^it us 'mongst the 



HICKOK, Laurens Perseus, an Amer- 
ican clergyman, educator, and author, 
born in 1798. He was educated at Union 
College. In 1822 lie became pastor of a 
church in Newtown, Conn., and afterwards 
succeeded Dr. Lyman Beecher in Litch- 
field. In 1836 he became Professor of 
Tlieology in the Western Keserve College, 
(^liio, in 1844 in the Auburn Theoh»gical 
Seminary, and in 1852 Professor of Men- 
tal and Moral Philosophy in LTnion Col- 
lege, Schenectady, of which he was appoint- 
ed President in 1866. Before his election 
lie had charge of the college for several 
years. In 1868 he resigned the presidency 
of the College, and went to reside at Am- 
herst, jMass. He is tlie author of Rational 
Psycholoiju^ or the Subjective Idea and Ob- 
jective Laws of all Intelligence (1848), Sys- 
tem of Moral Science (1853), Empirical 
Psychology^ or the Human Mind as given in, 
Consciousness (1854), Rational Cosmology, 
or the Eternal Principles and the Necessary 
Laws of the Universe (1858), Creator and 
Creation, or the Knoioledge in the Reason of 
Grod and His Works (1872), Humanity 
Lnmortal, or Man Tried, Fallen, and Re- 
deemed (1872), and Rational Logic, or 
True Logic must strike Root in Reason^ 


Botli science of Tliought and science <tt 
Thing, are alike complete compieliension in 
reason, and tlnis hotli are true knowledge. 
But a prime difference between them is in this, 
that tlie science of Thought is of that wliich is 
wholly within and essentially suhjective, while 
the science of Thing is of that wliich is overt, 
and essentially objective. One may have in 
thought a mathematical triangle or circle. 


and wliilo tlio figure may cotidition other 
figures in subjective place and period, it can- 
not resist and react upon other figures them- 
selves. It can put two etpial triangles or 
circles to coincide in thought with each other, 
and llic one will then be wholly lost m the 
other. All the energy is in the thinking, and 
no energy goes over into the thought to give 
to it any rigidity or stable consistency. And, 
in the same way, one may hav<! in mental con- 
ception any color or sound, which may have 
its conditioning relationships of place and 
period with other conceptions, but the mere 
conceptions may be modified in any way among 
themselves with no mutual resistance and in- 
terferences. The conception has in itself no 
hard consistency, and all the e<iorgy is in the 
subjective thinking process, with none put 
over and persisting in the stated thought. — 
liut when one has the plan of a house, or other 
com})licated structure, in subjective thought, 
and he es.says to put the plan in execution as 
a fixt^d thing, there is an energy other than 
the thinking demanded, even an energizing 
which moves muscle, and applies hard instru- 
mentalities in shaping and placing materials 
together; and only in overcoming the resist- 
ance in the material elements can the thought- 
out plan become an existing thing. The sub- 
jective thinking energy which made the jilan 
has been supplemented by an executive will, 
whose energy has gone over into a controlling 
arrangement of resisting elements, and made 
them overtly to exj)ress the ])lan as now an 
existing thing. Subjective thinking-energy, 
su])i>lemented by subjective willing-energy, 
has })een put into essentially objective mate- 
rials, and the product is an objective existence 
in common for all intelligences. lint still 
further, one may trace the growth of a grain 
of wheat from its first germinating to its per- 
fect maturing, and while the insight of reason 
will detect a thought diffused through the 


organism of the plant, jct lias not tlie sub- 
jective thinking put the idea into the plant, 
nor has the subjective will supplemented the 
thinking, and forced the component elements 
to their outward expression of the hidden idea 
which the seed originally contained. 

Here, then, are three different processes of 
thought, and all have the complete compre- 
hension of their manifold parts in one, and 
are each thus a true knowing. The iirst has 
no other energy than the subjective thinking, 
and is pure thou(//it only. The second has 
the energy of the subjective thinking ; but 
another subjective energy than thinking, even 
an executive willing, must overcome the re- 
sisting energy already in the elements, and 
arrange them according to the thought, and 
the product is an artijicial thing. Tlie third 
has the ideal thought as seen already in the 
object, and which has been put there by a 
power in nature itself that lias built up the 
outer object by the inner working of its own 
forces, and is thus a natural thing. But 
while all these have true science, whether of 
thought or thing, inasmuch as all have the 
many (•omi)rehended in a single, yet can these 
objects be known as created on\y in a qnaliilcd 
sense, except in the last case, which is a true 
creation. The pure thought is a creation only 
as we say a creation of the imagination, or 
the creation of genius ; the artilicial thing is a 
creation only as a construction from created 
materials; but the natural thing, though in 
its generations a propagated thing, is truly a 
created thing, and all its energies of elemental 
material, and organizing instiiict according to 
original ty])e, are product of absolute thought 
and will first springing into being from the 
one All-creating source. — Creator and Crea- 


illGGINSON', Francis, an Anglo- 
American clergyman, born in England in 
1588; died at Salem, Mass., in l(!oO. lie 
was educated at Cambridge, and became 
rector at Claybrooke ; but liaving imbilx'd 
Puritanical views, be left his rcctoj'ship, 
and su})pi)rted himself by preparing stu- 
dents for the University. In 1G29 he was 
invited by the Massachusetts Bay Com- 
])any to accompany an exjiedition to New 
Enghmd. lie arrived at Salem on June 
29, and three weeks after was chosen 
teaclier of the Salem congregation ; but 
died inlittle more than a year. He wrote 
a Journal of the Vognfjc to New England^ 
and a pamphlet entitled Neiv F^nnlniuVs 
Plantation, or a Short and True Dexcription 
of the C<nnmodities of that Count r// (Lon- 
don, 1G30.) 


J/rty 13. — Tlie wind lioldiiig easterly, we 
came as far as the Land's End, in the utter- 
most part of Cornwall, and so left our de^,r 
native soil of England behind us and sailing 
ubout ten lea}:cues further, we passed the isles 
of Scilly, :ind launched the same day into the 
main ocean. And now my wife aiul other pas- 
scTif^ers began to feel the tossing waves of the 

western sea ^^"^'I/ 27. — About noon 

there arose a south wind, which increased more 
and more, so that it seemed to lis, that are 
landsuien, a sore and terrible storm : for the 
wiml blew mightily, and the rain fell vehe- 
meutly ; the sea roared, and the waves tossed 
us horrilily ; besides, it w-as fearful dark, and 
the mariuer's mate was afraid, and noise on the 
other side, with their running here and there, 
loud crying one to another to pull at this and 
that rope. The waves poured themselves over 
the ship that the two boats wore filled with 



water. But this lasted not many hours, after 

which it became a calmish day June 

24. — This day we had all a clear and com- 
fortable sight of America June 26. — A 

foggy morning, but after clear, and wind calm. 
We saw many schools of mackerel, infinite mul- 
titudes on every side of our ship. The sea was 
abundantly stored with rockweed and yellow 
flowers, like gillyflowers. By noon we were 
within three leagues of Cape Ann; and as we 
sailed along the coasts, we saw every liill and 
dale and every island full of gay woods and 
high trees. The nearer we came to the shore, 
the more flowers in abundance ; sometimes 
scattered abroad, sometimes joined in sheets 
nine or ten yards long, which we supposed to 
be brought from the low meadows by the tide. 
Now what with fine Avoods and green trees by 
land, and these yellow flowers painting the sea, 
made us all desirous to see our new Paradise of 
New England, whence we saw such forerun- 
ning signals afar off June 29. — As we 

passed along, it was wonderful to behold so 
many islands replenished with thick wood and 
high ti'ees, and many fair green ])astures. We 
rested that night with glad and (liaukful hearts 
that God had j)ut an end to our long and 
tedii»us journey through the greatest sea in the 
world. Our passage was both j)leasant and 
profitable ; for we received instruction and de- 
light in beliolding tlie wonders of the Lord in 
the deep waters, and sometimes seeing the sea 
around us api>earing with a terrible counte- 
nance, and, as it were, full of high liills and 
deep valleys ; and sometimes it appeared as a 
most plain and even meadow. And ever and 
anon we saw divers kinds of fishes sporting in 
the great waters, great grampuses and huge 
whales, going by C(»n)panies, and jiufling up 
water-streams. Those that love tbt'ir own 
<-,hinincy-corn(M-, and <lare not go be^-ond flicir 
own town's cikI, shall never have tlii^ lionor to 
SCO theso wonderful works of Almighty (iod. 


TEii), wifo of Tlioiiiiis \V. lligginson, lias 
written several occasional poems of decided 


A flawless pearl, snatched from an ocean cave 

Kcinoto from liglit or air, 
And liy tlie mad cari'ss of stormy wave 

Made but more pure and fair; 

A diamond wrested from eartli's hidden zone, 

To whose recesses deep 
It clung, and bravel}^ flaslied a liglit tli;it slione 

Wliere dusky shadows cree[> ; 

A sajtplure in wliose lieart tlie tender rays 
Of summer skies have met : 

A ruby, gb)wing with tlie ardent blaze 
Of suns that never set : — 

These priceless jewels shone one hap2)y day, 

On my bewildered siglit; 
" We bring from earth, sea, sky,'' they seemcHl 
to say, 
"Love's richness and delight." 
" For me ? " I trembling cried. " Thou need'st 
not dread," 
Sang heavenly voices sweet ; 
And unseen hands placed on my lowly huad 
This crown for angels meet. 



HIGGINSON, Thomas Wentworth, 
an American author, born in Cambridge, 
Mass., in 1823. He was educated at Har- 
vard University and Divinity School, and 
in 1847 became pastor of a Congregational 
church at Newbiiryport. He retained this 
pastorate for three years. From 1852 to 
1858 he had charge of a free cliurch in 
Worcester. He then devoted himself to 
literature. He was from the first an active 
participant in the Anti-Slavery agitation, 
aided in organizing parlies of Free-State 
settlers in Kansas, and served as bjigadier- 
general in the Free-State forces. During 
the civil war lie served in a Massachusetts 
regiment, and as colonel of 33d United 
States colored troops, the first regiment of 
slaves nuistered into the United States 
service. He was a member of the Massa- 
chusetts Legishiture in 1880-81, and from 
1881 to 1883 a member of the State Board 
of Education. Among his works, some of 
which are collections from his pa[)ers in 
periodicals, are : Out-door Papers (18<)3), 
3Ialhone: an Oldport llomance (I8(!'.l), 
Army Life in a Black lle<jiment (1870), 
Atlantic Eismys (1871), Oldport Days 
(1873), Youny Folks History of the United 
/States (1875), History of Education in 
Jlhode Island (187(5), Vouny Folks' Book 
of American Explorers (1877), Short Stud- 
ies of Americctn Authors (187*.'), Common 
Sense ahout Woiuen (ISSI), /jifc of Mar' 
yaret Fuller Ossoli (1(S84), Laryer History 
of the United States (18S5), The Monarch 
of Dreams (188G), Hints on Writiny and 
S/>eei-h-makiuy, and Women, ami Men (1887.) 
H(! has transhited thi; Co/nplete Works of 
Epirtetas ( 18(15), and has edited The Har- 
vard Memorial Bioyraphiea (18(JGj, and 


Brief Jiliit/rajtiiu'S of European ShiteHmen 


IX A F0«;. 

As the boat floated on, every sight ami sound 
api)eared strani^e. The uui.sic from the fort 
came sudden and startling tlirough tlie vapor- 
ous eddies. A tall white scliooner rose in- 
stantaneously near them, like a light-house. 
They could see tlie steam of the factory floating 
low, seeking some outlet between cloud and 
water. As they drifted jiast a wharf, the great 
black piles of coal hung high and gloomy; then 
a stray sunbeam brought out their peacock 
colors ; then came the fog again, driving hur- 
riedly by, as if impatient to go somewhere and 
enraged at the obstacle. It seemed to have a 
vast inorganic life of its own, a volition and a 
whim. It drew itself across the horizon like 
acurtain ; then advanced in trampling armies ui> 
the bay: then marched in masses northward ; 
then suddenly grew thin, and showed great 
spaces of sunlight ; then drifted across the low 
islands, like long tufts of wool ; then rolled it- 
self awa}-^ t(nvard the horizon : then closed in 
again, pitiless and gray. 

Suddenly something vast towered amid the 
mist above then. It was the French war-ship 
returned to her anchorage once more, and seem- 
ing in that dim atmosphere to be something 
spectral and strange, that had taken form out 
of tlie elements. The muzzles of great guns 
rose tier above tier along her side : great boats 
hung one above another, on successive pairs of 
davits, at her stern. So high was her hull, that 
the topmost gun appeared to be suspended in 
middle air ; and yet this was but the beginning 
of her altitude. Above these ascended the 
heavy masts, seen dimly through the mist ; 
between these were spread eight dark lines of 
sailors' clothes, which with tlie massive yards 
above looked like part of some ponderous frame- 
work built to reach the sky. This prolongation 


of the whole dark mass towards tlie heavens had 
a portentous look to those who gazed from be^ 
low; and when the denser fog sometimes furled, 
itself away from the topgallant masts, hitherto 
invisible, and showed them rising loftier yet, 
the tri-color at the mizzen-mast head, and 
looking down as if from the zenith, then they 
all seemed to appertain to something of more 
than human workmanship ; a hundred wild 
tales of j)haiitom vessels came up to the im- 
agination and it was as if that one gigantic 
structure were expanding to fill all space from 
sky to sea. — Malhone. 


It is nine o'clock upon a summer Sunday 
morning, in the year sixteen hundred and 
something. The sun looks down brightly on 
a little forest settlement, around whose expand- 
ing fields the great American wilderness re- 
cedes each day, withdrawing its bears and 
wolves and Indians into an ever remoter dis- 
tance — not yet so far removed but that a stout 
wooden gate at each end of the village street 
indicates that there is danger outside. It 
woidd look very busy autl thriving in this 
little place, to-day, but for the Sabbath still- 
ness which broods over everything with almost 
an excess of calm. Even the smoke ascends 
more faintly than usual from the chimneys of 
these numerous log-huts and these few framed 
liouses, and since three o'clock yesterday after- 
noon not a stroke of this world's work has been 
done. Last night a I'reparatory Lecture was 
held, and now comes the consummation of the 
whole week's life, in thesolonui ac^t of worship. 
In which settlenitiit of the Massachusetts 
Colony is the great (u-remonial to pass before 
our eyes? If it be Cambridge village, tlio 
warning <lrum is beating its jtcaccfiil summons 
to tlu' congregation. If it be Salem village, a 
bell is sounding its mon; ecclesiastic, peal, and 
a red Hag is simultajieously hung forth from 

TUOMAS WENTWOllTIl ni(;(;lNS0N.-4 

the mooting-lumso, like the aiictioii-nag of 
hiter periods. If it be Haverhill village, then 
Abraham Tyler luis been blowing his horn as- 
siduously for half an hour — a service fur whicli 
Abraham, eath year, receives a half-pound of 
pork from every family in town. 

Be it drum, bell, or horn that gives the sum- 
mons, we will draw near to this important 
building, the centre of the village, the one 
pulilic edifice — nicctiiig-house, totvn-liouse, 
school-house, watch-house, all in one. So 
ini])ortant is it, that no one can legally dwell 
more than half a mile from it. And yet the 
])eople ride to " meeting," short though the 
distance be, for at yonder oaken block a wife 
dismounts from behind her husband ; — and 
has it not, moreover, been found needful to 
impose a fine of forty shillings on fast trot- 
ting to and fro ? All sins are not modern ones, 
3'oung gentlemen. 

We approach nearer still, and come among 
the civic institutions. This is the pillory, 
yonder are the stocks, and there is a large 
wooden cage, a terror to evil-doers, but let 
us hope empty now. Round the meeting- 
house is a high wooden paling, to which the 
law j)ermits citizens to tie their horses, pro- 
vid-ed it be not done too near the passage-way. 
For at that opening stands a sentry, clothed 
in a suit of armor which is painted black, and 
cost the town twenty-four shillings by the bill. 
He bears also a heavy niatc^hlock musket ; his 
rest, or iron fork, is stuck in the ground, ready 
to support the weapon ; and he is girded with 
his bandolier, or broad leather belt, which 
sustains a ^word and a dozen tin cartridge- 

The meeting-house is the second to which 
the town has treated itself, the first having 
been '^a timber fort, both strong and comely, 
with flat roof and battlements," — a cannon on 
top, and the cannonade of the gospel down 
below. But this one cost the town sixty- 

9 '29 


three pounds — liard-earnotl pounds, and care- 
fully expended. It is built of brick, smeared 
outside with claj', and finished with clap- 
boards, larger than our clapboards, outside of 
all. It is about twenty-five feet square, with a 
chimney half the width of the building, and 
projecting four feet above the thatched roof. 
The steeple is in the centre, and the bell-rope, 
if there be one, hangs in the middle of the 
broad aisle. There are six windows, two on 
each side and one at each end, some being 
covered with oiled paper only, others glazed in 
numerous snxdl panes. And between the 
windows, on the outside, hang the heads of 
all the wolves that have been killed in the 
township within the year. . . . 

The people are assembling. The Governor 
has passed by, with his four vergers bearing 
halberds before him. The French Popish am- 
bassadors, who have just arrived from Canada, 
are told the customs of the place, and left to 
stay quietly in the Governor's house, with 
sweetmeats, wines, and the liberty of a private 
walk in the garden. The sexton has just 
called for the minister, as is his duty twice 
every Sunday, and, removing his cocked hat, 
he walks before his superior officer. The 
minister enters, and passes up the aisle, dr<»ss- 
ed in Geneva (-loak, black skull-cap, and black 
gloves, open at thumb and iingor for the better 
liandling of his manuscript. Jle looks round 
upon his congregation, a few hundred, recently 
" seated " anew for the year, according to rank 
and age. There are the old men in the pews 
beiuiath the jmlpit. There are the young men 
in the gallery, or near the dopr, wearing 
ruffs, showy belts, gold and silver buttons, 
"points" at the knees, and great boots. 
There are the young women, with "silk or 
tiffany hiiods or scarfs," " embroidered or nee- 
dl(!-wtirkfd caps," "immoderate great sleeves," 
"cnt-W(»rks" — a mystery; "slash ajjpareT' — 
another mystery; "immoderate great vayles, 


Idiiif wings," etc — mystery on mystery, Imt nil 
rcconI(t<l in the statutes, wliich furltid these 
splendors to persons of mean estate. There 
are the wives of tin; magistrates in prominent 
seats, and the grammar-scliool master's wife 
next tliem; and in each ]>ew, elose to tlie 
mother's (dhow, is tlie little wooden eagc! for 
the youngest child, still too young to sit alone. 
All boys are deemed too young to sit alone 
also; for, though the emigrants left in Holland 
the aged deaconesses who then presided, birch 
in hand, to control the rising generation in 
Sunday meetings, yet the urchins are still 
lu-rded on the pulpit and gallery-stairs, with 
four constahles to guard them from the al- 
lurements of sin. And there sits Sin itself 
emhodied in the shriidcing form of some 
humiliated man or woman ; placed on a high 
stool in the principal aisle, hearing the name 
of some dark crime written on papiu* and pin- 
ihh\ to tlie garments, or ])erhaps a Scarlet Jjet- 
ter on the breast. 

O the silence of tliis ])]:u-o of worship, after 
the solemn service sets in ! " People do not 
sneeze or cough here in j)ublic assemblies," 
says one writer triumphantly, " so much as in 
England."' The warning caution, " Be Short," 
whi«'h the minister has ins<;ribed above his 
study-door, claims no authority over his pulpit. 
1I(! may pray liis hour, unpausing, and no one 
thinks it l(jng ; for indeed, at prayer-meetings 
four persons will sometimes pray an hour each — 
one with confession, one with ]»rivate petitions, 
a third with pi'titions for (Ihurch and Kingdom, 
and a fourth with thanksgiving — each theme 
being conscientiously treated by itself. Then 
he may preach his hour, and, turning his hour- 
glass, may say — but that he cannot foresee the 
levity to be born in a later century with iSEather 
]iyles — '' Now my hearers, we w'\\\ take another 
glass." .... 

The sermon is over. The more demoralized 
among the little boys, whose sleepy eyes have 


been more than once admonisliod by the hare's- 
foot wand, of the constables — the sliarp paw is 
used for the hoys, the soft fur is kept for the 
smooth foreheads of drowsy maidens — look up 
thoroughly awakened now. I^right eyes glance 
from beneath silk or tiffany hoods, for a little 
interlude is coming. Many things may happen 
in this pause after the sermon. Questions may 
be asked of the elders now, wliich the elders 
may answer, if they can. Some lay brother may 
" exercise " on a text of Scripture — rather se- 
vere exercise it sometimes turns out. Candi- 
dates for the church may be proposed. A bap- 
tism may take place. If it be the proper month 
the laws against profaning the Sabbath may 
be read. The last town regulations may be 
read; or — far more exciting — a new marriage 
may be published. Or a darker scene may fol- 
low, and some offending magistrate may be 
required to stand upon a bench, in his worst 
garments, with a foul linen cap drawn close to 
his e^'cs, and acknowledge his sins before the 
pious people, who reverenced him so lately. 

These things done, a deacon saj's impres- 
sively, "Brethren, now there is time for con- 
tribution; wherefore, as God hath prospered 
you, so freely offer." Then the people in the 
galleries come down and march two abreast, 
"uponeileand down the other," passing be- 
fore the desk where in a long "pue" sit the 
elders and deacons. One of these holds a 
money-box, into wliich the worsliippers put 
their offtuings, usnidl}' varying from one tn 
five shillings, according to tlieir ability and 
good-will. Some give ])api'r pledges instead, 
and others give other valuables, such as "a fair 
gilt <ii]t, with a cover," for tlie communion- 
service. Then comes a psalm, read, line after 
line, out of tlie " Bay l*salni-I?ook,'' and sung 
by the peoj)le. These psalms are sung regu- 
larly through, four every Sunday, and some 
ton tunes compose the whol(! vocal range of tln^ 
congregation. Tlien conio the words, " lUossed 



Jire they wlio liear tlu) word of tlie Lord and 
keep it," and then tlie benediction. 

And then tlic reverend divine descends from 
his desk, and walks down the aisle, bowing 
gravely right and left to liis people, not one of 
whom stirs till the minister lias gone out; and 
then the assembly disperses, each to his oavh 
home, unless it be some who liave come from a 
distance, and stay to eat their cold pork and 
j)eas iu the meeting-liouse. — Atlantic J^finai/s. 


It is a dark, mild, drizzling evening, and as 
the foggy air breeds sand-flies, so it calls out 
melodies and strange antics from this mysteri- 
ous race of grown-u[) children witli whom my 
lot is cast. All over the camp the lights glim- 
mer in the tents, and as I sit at my desk in 
the open doorway, there come mingled sounds 
of stir and glee. ]}oys laugh and shout; a 
feeble flute stirs somewhere in some tent — not 
an officer's ; a drum throbs far away in another; 
•wild kildeer-plover flit and wail above us, like 
the haunting souls of dead slave-masters; and 
from a neighboring cook-fire comes the monoto- 
nous sound of that strange festival, half pow- 
wow, half i)rayer-meeting, which they know 
only as a "shout." These fires are usually en- 
closed in a little booth, made neatly of palm- 
leaves and covered in at top — a regular native 
African hut, in short, such as is pictured in 
books, and such as I once got up from dried 
palm-leaves, for a fair at home. This hut is 
now crammed with men, singing at the top of 
their voices, in one of th(;ir (puiint, monotonous 
endless, negro-Methodist chants, with obscure 
syllables recurring constantly, and slight varia- 
tions interwoven, all ac(X)mpanied with a regu- 
lar drumming of the feet and clap2)ing of the 
hands, like castanets. Then the excitement 
spreads ; inside and outside the enclosure men 
begin to quiver and dance, others join, a circle 
forms, winding monotonously round some one 


in tlie centre ; some '' heel-and-toe " tumultuous- 
ly, others merely tremble and stagger on, 
others stoop and rise, others whirl, others caper 
sideways, all keep steadily circling like der- 
vishes ; spectators applaud special strokes of 
skill ; my approach only enlivens the scene. 
The circle enlarges, louder grows the singing, 
rousing shouts of encouragement come in, half- 
hacchanalian, half-devout. '' Wake 'em, brud- 
der ! " " Stan' up to 'em, brudder ! " — and 
still the ceaseless drumming and clapping in 
l^erfect cadence, goes steadily on. Suddenly 
there comes a sort of snap, and the spell breaks, 
amid general singing and laughter. And this 
not rarely and occasionally, but night after 
night, while in other parts of the camp the 
soberest prayers and exhortations are proceed- 
ing sedately. — Army Life in a Black Regi- 


niLDRF/ril, Richard, an American 
journalist and historian, born at Deerfiekl, 
Mass., in 1807 ; died at Florence, Italy, in 
18G5. He graduated at Harvard in 1826; 
studied law, and practiced at the bar in 
Newburyport and Boston from 1830 to 
1832, wlien he became one of the editors 
of the Boston Atlas. In 1840 he went to 
Demerara, British Guiana, where he edited 
the Guiana Chi-onicle, and put forth a 
compilation of the Colonial Laws of British 
Guiana, with an Historical Introduction. 
Subsequently, for several years, he was 
editorially connected with the N'ew York 
Tribune. In 1861 he was appointed l^. S. 
Consul at Trieste, which post he retained 
until ill health compelled him to relinquish 
it. Besides contributions to journals he 
wrote : Archy Moore, or The \V7ute Slave, 
an anti-slavery novel (1836), Theory of 
Legislation, a translation of Bentham's 
work (1840), History of Banks (1841), 
Theory of Morals (1844), Theory <f Politics 
(1853), Despotism in America (1854), Japan, 
as it Was and Is (1855), and a compilation 
from Lord Campbell's Lives of Atrocious 
Judf/es (1857.) 

His most important work is The History 
of the United States (6 vols., 1849-1856), 
treating of the history of the country from 
its first settlement down to the close of 
President Monroe's first administration in 
1821. At the close of the last volume lie 
thus gives his reason for concluding the 
History at this point :- 


With the re-annexation of Florida to the 
Anglo-American dominion, the recognized ex- 



tension of our western limit to the shores of 
the Pacific, and the partition of those new ac- 
quisitions between slavery and freedom, closed 
Monroe's first term of office ; and with it a 
marked era in our history. All the old land- 
marks of party, uprooted as they had been — 
first by the embargo and the war with England, 
and then by peace in Euro^je — had since, by 
the bank question, the internal improvement 
question, and the tariff question, been complete- 
ly superseded and almost wholly swept away. 
At the Ithuriel touch of the Missouri discus- 
sion, the slave interest, hitherto hardly recog- 
nized as a distinct element in our system, had 
started up, portentous and diluted, disavow- 
ing the very fundamental j)rincij)les of modern 
democracy, and again threatening, as in the 
Federal Convention, the dissolution of the 
Union. It is from this point — already be- 
ginning indeed to fade away in the distance, 
that our politics of to-day [185G] take their de- 
parture. — History of the United States. Vol. 


The dying embers of the Continental Con- 
gress — barely kept alive for some months by 
the occasional attendance of one or two dele- 
gates — as the day [March 4, 17<S9] a])proached 
for the new system to be organized, (juietly 
went out, without note or observation. History 
knows few bodies so remarkable. The Long 
l^arliament of Charles I. and the French 
National Assembly are alone to be compared 
with it. Coming together, in the first instance, 
a mere collection of consulting delegates, the 
Continental Congress had boldly si'ized the 
reins of power, assumed the leadership of the 
insurgent States, issued bills of t'redit, raised 
armies, declared in(h'penden(;e, negotiated 
foreign treaties, carried the nation through an 
eight years' war; iinally had (Extorted from the 
])owerful mother-(;ountry an acknowledgment 
of the sovereign authority so daringly assumed 
and so indomitably maintained. 

IflCilAIJl) lllLDKKTIT.— 3 

l)iit this l)iilli;uil fiiiTor Iiu<l boon as sl)<>rt as 
it was j^KniiHis, tlit! (lucliiie luul CDiiiiutjiuH-il 
c'Vi'ii ill tlic midst of the \v;ir. Exliaiistcd Ky 
such cxtraoidiiiiuv clTints, smitten witli the 
curso dl" pDVerty, their |ia|)ei- uiniK^y iirst depn- 
ciatiiig and tlieii re|tiidiate<l — uverwhohiied wit h 
delits which they (toidd not pay — peiisitmers 
on tlio buiuity of i''rance — insulted by mutineers 
— scoutt'd at by tiie pnlijic; creditors — unable 
tofullil thelri-alies they had made — bearded and 
encruacheil upon by the State authorities — is- 
suing fruitless retpiisitions vvliich tliey liad no 
power to enforce — vainly begging for addition- 
al autJiority whicli th(> States i-efused to grant 
— thrown more and more into the shade by the 
ver}' contrast of former j)()wer — the Continental 
Congress sank fast into decrepitude and con- 
tempt. Feebhs is the sentiment of political 
gratitude ! Debts of that sort are t;ommonly 
left for posterity to pay. While ;dl eyes were 
turned — -some with doul)t and sonn- with ap- 
])rehension, but the greater part with hope and 
coniidence — towards the ample authority 
vested in the new government now about to be 
organized, not one res])ectful word seems to 
liave been uttered, not a single reverential re- 
gret to have been dropped over the fallen great- 
ness of the exhaust(^d and expiring Continontal 
Congress. — J/istori/, Vol. III. 


It was not at all in the spirit of a professed 
duellist, it was not up(jn any j)altry point of 
honor, that Hamilton had atun-pted the extraor- 
dinary challenge of P)nrr, by -which it was 
att(!mpted to hold him answerable for the 
numerous imputations on liurr's (character, 
bandied about in conversation and the news- 
J>apers for two or three years past. Tin? ])rac- 
tice of duelling he utterly comlemned ; indeed, 
he had himself already been a victim to it in 
the loss of his eldest son, a boy of twenty, 
in a political duel some two years previously. 



As a private citizen — as a man under the in- 
fluence of moral and religious sentiments — as 
a husband, loving and loved, and the father of 
a numerous and dependent family — as a debtor 
honorably disposed, whose creditors might 
suffer by his death — he had every motive for 
avoiding the meeting. So he stated in a paper 
which, under a premonition of liis fate, he took 
care to leave behind him. It was in the char- 
acter of a public man ; it was in tliat lofty 
spirit of patriotism, of which examples are so 
rare, rising high above all personal and private 
considerations — a sjiirit magnanimous and 
self-sacrificing to the last, however in this in- 
stance uncalled for and mistaken — that he 
accepted the fatal challenge. "The ability 
to be in future useful," — such was his own 
statement of his motives — '■'■ whether in resist- 
ing mischief or effecting good in those crises of 
our public affairs which seem likely to happen, 
Avould probably be inseparable from a conform- 
ity with prejudice in this j)articular." 

With a candor towards his opponents by 
which Hamilton was ever so nobly distin- 
guished — but of wliich so very seldom indeed 
did he ever experience an}'- i-eturn — he dis- 
avowed in this 2i:ipt^i' — the last which he ever 
wrote — any disposition to affix odium to l^urr's 
conduct in tliis particular case. He denied 
feeling towards Riirr any personal ill-will, 
wliile he admitted that ]>urr might naturally 
be influenced against him b}' hearing of strong 
animadversions in whicli lie had indulged, and 
which, as usually haj)pens, might probably 
have been aggravated in the report. These 
animadversions, in some cases, might have 
been occasioned by misconstruction or misinfox-- 
niation ; ^-et his censures had not proceeded on 
light ground, nor from unworthy motives. 
From the ])ossibility, however, that he might 
have injured V>\\\\\ as wrll as from his general 
principles and tcmpta- in relation to such 
affairs, ho liad come to the r<^solution which ho 


left on record, tuid coimmniicatod also to his 
second, to withluild and throw away his first 
fire, and }»erhai)s even his second ; thus giving 
to Burr a doubU^ ()i)portunity to pause and re- 
flect. . . . 

The grounds of "Wcehawk, on the Jersey 
shore, opposite New York, were at that time 
tlie usual field of these single conihats, tlien, 
chii'lly hy reason of the inflamed state of puMic. 
feeling, of frequent occurrence, and very sel- 
dom ending without hloodshed. The (hiy hav- 
ing been fixed, and the hour appointed at seven 
o'ch>ck in the morning, the parties met, accom- 
panied only by their secoTids. The bargemen, 
as well as Dr. Hosack, the surgeon mutually 
agreed u])on, remained, as usual, at a distance, 
in ordei", if any fatal result should occur, not to 
be witnesses. 

The parties having exchanged salutations, 
the seconds measured the distance of ten 
paces ; loaded the pistols ; made the other pre- 
liminary arrangements, and j)1ared the cdin- 
batants. At the appointed signal IJurr took 
deliberate aim and iired. The ball entered 
Hamilton's side ; his pistol too was uncon- 
sciously discharged. Burr approached him, ap- 
parently somewhat moved ; but, on the sugges- 
tion of liis second — the surgeon and the 
bargemen already approaching — he turned and 
hastened away. Van Kess coolly covering him 
from their sight by opening an lunbrella. 

The surgeon found Hamilton half-lying, half- 
sitting on the ground, supported in the arms 
of his second. The pallor of death was on liis 
face, " ])octor," he said, " this is a mortal 
wound ; " and, as if overcome by the effort of 
speaking, he immediately fainted. As he was 
carried across the river, the fresh breeze reviv- 
ed him. His own house being in the country, 
he was conveyed to the house of a friend, where 
he lingered for twentj'-four hours in great agony, 
but preserving his composure and self-possession 
to the last. — Jlistory, Vol. V. 



In Hamilton's death the Federalists and the 
country experienced a loss second oidy to that 
of Wasliiiigton. Hamilton possessed the same 
rare and lofty qualities, tlie same just balance 
of soul, Avith less, indeed, of Washington's 
severe simplicity and awe-inspiring presence, 
but with more of warmth, variety, and grace. 
If the Doric in architecture be taken as the 
symbol of Washington's character, Hamilton's 
belonged to tlie same grand style as developed 
in the Corinthian — if less imjiressive, more 
winning. If we add Jay for the Ionic, we have 
a trio not to be matched — in fact, not to be aji- 
proached in our history, if, indeed, in any other. 
Of earth-born Titans, as terrible as great — now 
angels, and now toads and serpents — there 
are everywhere enough. Of the serene 
and benign sons of the celestial gods, 
how few at any time have walked the 
earth ! — Jlistonj, Vol. V. 


The political character of Madison sprang, 
naturally enough, from his intellectual teni])er- 
amentand personal and })arty relations. IMdeg- 
niatic in his constitution, moderate in all his 
feelings and j)assions, he possessed remarkable 
acuteness, and ingenuity sufllcient to invest 
with the most persuasive plausibility whatever 
si<le of a (juestion he es}»oused. IJut he want- 
ed the decision, the energy, the commanding 
firmness, necessary in a leader. ]\[ore a rliet- 
orician than a ruK'r, he was made only for 
second })laces, and tlierefore never was but 
second, even when he seemed to be first. A 
Federalist from natural largeness of view.s, he 
became a Jeffersonian Kepublican because that 
became the predominating j)olicy of Virginia. 
A peace man in his heart and judgment, he be- 
came a war man to secure liis r(vele<;tion to the 
Presidency, and l)ecause that seemed to be the 
prevailing bias of the Republican party. Having 


heen, in tlie course of a long political curecr, on 
both sides of alnKtst every political question, 
he made friends among all ]>arties, anxious 
to avail themselves, whenever they could, of his 
able support ; escaping thereby much of that 
searching criticism so freely applied, with the 
unmitigated severity of party hatred, to his 
more decided and consistent compatriots and 
rivals. Ijct us, however, do Madison the 
justice to add, that, as he was among the first, 
so he was, all things considered, by far the 
ablest and most amiable of that large class of 
our national statesmen, who, instead of devo- 
tion to. the carrying out of any favorite idcva or 
measures of tlieir own, put up their talents 
like mercenary lawyers, to be sold to the high- 
est bidder; espousing on every (piestion that 
side which, for the moment, seems to offer the 
surest road to ap[)lause and promotion. — 
Jlistory, Vol. W. 


HILL, Thomas, an American clergyman, 
scientist, and poet, born at New Bruns- 
wick, N. J., in 1818. Left an orphan at an 
early age, he was apprenticed to a printer, 
and subsequently to an apothecary. He 
afterwards entered Harvard College, where 
he graduated in 1843, and at the Divinit}' 
School in 1845, when he became minister 
of a Unitarian congregation at Waltliam, 
Mass., Avhere he remained until 1849, wlien 
lie succeeded Horace Mann as President 
of Antiocli College, Ohio. In 1862 he was 
made President of Harvard College, retain- 
ing this position until 1868, when he re- 
signed on account of impaired health. In 
1871 lie accompanied Agassiz on his scien- 
tific expedition to Brazil. Upon liis return 
from this expedition he became pastor of 
a Unitarian congregation at Portland, 
Maine, where lie has since resided. Among 
the numerous works of Mr. Hill are : Ad- 
dresses on Liheral Education before the 
Phi Beta Kappa Association of Harvard 
(1858), on Opportunities of Life at Anti- 
och (1860), Cliristmas^ and Poems on Slav- 
ery (1843), aeometry and Faith (1849), 
First Lessons in Geometry (1854), Second 
Book in Geometry (1852), Jesus, the Inter- 
preter of Nature (1859), Practical Arith- 
metic (1881.) 

His son, Henuv Barker Hill, born in 
1849, gi-aduated at Harvard in 1869, after- 
wards studied chemistry at Berlin, and in 
1874 became Assistant Professor of Chem- 
istry at Harvard, and full Professor iu 


Bobolink ! that in the meadow 

( >r liciiciitli till' ((rcliard's sliadow. 


Keepest up a constant rattlo 
Joyous as ray children's prattle — 
Welcome to the Xorth again ! 
Welcome to mine ear thy strain, 
Welcome to mine eye the si<;ht 
Of thy huff, thy Mu<-k and white. 
IJrighter phunes may greet the sua 
l>y the banks of Amazon ; 
Sweeter tones may weave the spell 
Of enchanting riiilomel : 
Ikit the tropic bird would fail, 
And the English nightingale, 
If we should compare their worth 
With thine endless, gushing mirth. 
\\4ien the Tdes of May are past — 
June and Summer nearing fast — 
AVhile from depths of blue above 
Conu\s the mighty breath of love, 
Calling out each bud and flower 
With resistless, secret power — 
Waking hope and fond desire, 
Kindling the erotic tire — 
Filling youths' and maidens' dreams 
With mysterious, pleasing themes: — 
Then, amid the sunlight clear. 
Floating in the fragrant air. 
Thou dost fill each heart with pleasure 
l>y thy glail ecstatic measure. 

A single note so sweet and low. 
Like a full heart's overflow. 
Forms the preludf ; but the strain 
Gives us no such tone again ; 
For the wild and saucy song 
Leaps and skips the notes among. 
With such (piick and sportive play, 
Ne'er was madder, merrier lay. 

Gayest songster of the Spring ! 
Thy melodies before me bring 
Visions of some dream-built land. 
Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, 
I might walk the livelong day 
Embosomed in perpetual May. 
Nor care nor fear th\' bosom knows ; 


For thee a tempest never blows ; 
But when our Kortherii Summer's u'er, 
By Delaware's or Schuylkill's shore, 
The wikl-rice lifts its airy head, 
And royal feasts for thee are spread ; 
And when the Winter threatens tliere. 
Thy tireless wings jet own no fear. 
But hear thee to more southern coasts, 
Far beyond the reach of frosts. 

Bobolink ! still may th}' gladness 
Take from me all taint of sadness ; 
Fill my soul with trust unshaken 
In that ]>eing who has taken 
Care for every living thing, 
In Summer, Winter, Fall, and Spring. 

There are certain classic metres to which 
our hiiiguage does not readily a(hipt itself. 
Among- these is tlie '' Choriambic,'' in wliicli 
tlie "foot" consists of four syllables, the 
lirst and last lotiij (which in English pros- 
ody is equivalent to accented), the two 
others i<liort. The subjoined poem, " The 
Winter is l*ast," is a good reprodiu-tion of 
the classic Choriambic measure. The suc- 
ceeding poem, "• Antiopea," was written in 
the Straits of Magellan, in the spring oi 
1872, while the author was a member of 
the Agassiz expedition. The butterfly 
there spoken of is that known as the 
Vdur^ita (intiopa^ which in our latitude 
niakc^'s its appearance in the month of 


Soft on this April morning 
Jircatlie from the South delicate odors, 
Vaguely delined, giving the breezes 

Spring-like, delicious zest ; — 

Breezes from Southern forests, 
Bringing us glad ti<lings of Sunnner's 
I'romised return ; waking from slumber 

Each of the earliest plants. 



Lu ! ill the night tlm elm-tii-c 
0[k'IumI its buds ; ciitkius of luizt;! 
Tu.ssclk'd till- hedge, luapk' and ahler 

Wolcoincd with hh.oiii the Spring. 

Faintly the waihling Idiichird 
Utters Ills note; .song-.spairows Ix.ldly 
Fling to th(! winil j<>y<>us a.ssuran«',t>, 

" Sumnun- is coming North !" 

None can express the longing, 
Mingled with joy, mingled with sadness, 
Swelling my heart ever, when April, 

Brings ns the bird and tlower. 

Tender and sweet remembrance 
Filling my sold, gives mo assurance, 
" Death is but frost ; lo ! the eternal 

Spring-time of licavcn shall come." 


At dead of night a south-west breez 

(jame silently stealing along; 
The bluebird followed at l)re:ilv of day, 

Singing his low sweet song. 

The breeze crejtt through the old stone wall, 
And wakened the butterfly there, 

And she came out, as morning broke. 
To float through the sunlit air. 

Within this stony rifted heart 

The .softening intluence stole. 
Filling with melodies divine. 

The chambers of my soul. 

With gentle words of hope and faith, 

V>Y lips now sainted spoken ; 
With vows of tenderest love toward me, 

Which never once were broken. 

At morn my soul awoke to life, 

And glowed with faith anew; 
The buds that perish swelled without. 

Within the immortal grew. 

10 '*5 


{Christmas, ISSl.) 

The moonless sky was studded thick with stars, 
And shepherd swains were watching hv the 
When suddenly a glorious light appears 

For heavenly glories are to them unrolled. 
A shining seraph from tlie courts above 

Glad tidings brings, a joy-inspiring word; 
(iod bears towards guilty man such wondrous 
That he hath sent a Saviour, Christ the 

A heavenly choir joins in the swelling song; 

Glory to God, they sing, and peace on earth ; 
The echoing rocks and hills the notes prolong, 

And earth rejoices at the Saviour's birth. 
No sooner did this choir their song begin. 

Than near those fields, within a lowly cave, 
Used as a stable for a village inn, 

Birth to her first-born humble Mary gave. 

Faint were the scattered stars which gemmed 
the sky 

Of human hope, when thus that child was 
All nations seemed in deepest night to lie ; 

No herald promised them a coming morn. 
The aiunent valor now was brutal force ; 

No hospitality a stranger found ; 
Honor and faith were dead ; the vital source 

Of every virtue in pollution drowned. 

Yet darker grows the night, so dark before, 

The scattered stars withdraw their feeble 
While beasts of prey amidst the horrors roar, 

And every heart is trembling with affriglit. 
But soon that chibl displays his power divine; 

lirighter his glories than seraydiic fire, 
Around his holy head they clearer shine. 

Worthy the ])raises of the heavenly choir. 

First, like the morning star, a silver thread 
Of piercing light he sends amid the gloom ; 


Thou pours a wider dawn amoiij? the dead — 

Men, dead in sins, shut in a livin<; touilt. 
Death is but sleep, antl sleepers ever dream : 
What awful dreams disturbed that living 
death ! 
But as the silver thread became a stream. 
The sleepers waked, and drew in living 

Down through the ages still that stream has 
11 owed ; 
Brighter and clearer ever grows its ray, 
Chasing the lingering shadows from the road, 
Vnd making plain the strait and iiarrow 
Against that lioly light we would not close 
Our slumbering eves; but walking b}' its 
Rise towards th(^ heavenly realms, as Jesus 
To tread the jiaths with endless glories bright. 


HILLARD, George Stfllman, an 
American lawyer and author, born at 
Machias, Maine, in 1808; died in 1879. 
He graduated at Harvard, and was admit- 
ted to the bar at Boston in 1833. He 
visited Europe in 1846, and upon liis re- 
turn delivered a course of twelve lectures 
upon Italy before the Lowell Institute in 
Koston. From 1867 to 1870 lie was U. S. 
District-Attorney for Massachusetts. He 
wrote the Life of Captain John Smith 
in " Sparks' American Biography." Six 
Months in Italy (1853), Life and Cam- 
paiijns of (reorye B. McClellan (1864), 
Political Duties of the L\lucated CVa.svsf.s, 
and Dangers and Duties of the Mereantile 
Profession. He translated Guyot's Char- 
acter and Infuence of Washington (1840), 
edited an edition of Spenser s Poems, and 
a Selection from the Writings of W<dter 
Savage Landor, ])repared a series of School 
Headers, and delivered many addresses 
before literary societies. 


On the morning of March 19th, I loft Naples 
for (Sorrento, ahout eigliteen mih's distant. 
The cars took us to Castellaniare, a town beauti- 
fnlly situated between the mountains and tlie 
sea, and mucli resorted to hy tlie Neapolitans 
in tlie heats of Summer. A lover of nature 
could hanlly find a s]>ot of more varied attrac- 
tions, liefore liini spreads the unrivalle<l hay, 
dotte<l with sailsand unfoldini; abroad canvas on 
which the most glowing colors and the juost 
vivid lights are dashed; a mirror on whidi the 
crimson and gold of morning, the blue of noon, 
and the orange and yellow-green of sunset he- 
liold a lovelier image of thenjselves ; a gentle 
and tideless sea, whose waves break upon the 
shonf like caresses, and never like angry blows. 


Sliould lie over bccomo weary of waves, and 
lanp^uisli for woods, he lias only to turn his 
back upon the sea and climb the hills for an 
hour or two, and he will find himself in tlie 
depths of sylvan and mountain solitudes; in a 
regi(jn of vines, running streams, deep-shadow- 
e<l valleys, and broad-armed oaks ; where he 
will hear the ring-dove coo, and see the sensi- 
tive hare dart across the forest aisles. A great 
city is within an hour's reach, and tht? shadow 
of Vesuvius hangs over the landscape, keeping 
the imagination awake by touches of mystery 
and terror. 

Fi'onj C'astellamare to Sorrento a noble road 
has within a few years past been constructed 
between tlie mountains and the sea, which in 
many places are so close together that the 
width of the road occupies the whole interven- 
ing space. On the right the traveller looks 
down a cliff of some hundred feet or more upon 
the bay, whose glossy Ihjor is da2)[iled with 
patches of green, pur2)le, and blue — the effect 
of varying (h-pth, or light and shade; or 
clusters of rock overgrown with sea-weed scat- 
tered over a sandy bottom. The colors of the 
l>ay of Xajdes were a constant surprise and de- 
light to me, from the predominance of blue 
and purple over the grays and greens of our 
own coast. There seem to be some elemciiits 
affecting the color of the sea, not deriv(Mlfronr 
the atmosphere or the reflection of tlit^ heavens. 

The road combined rare elements of beauty; 
for it nowhere pursued a monotonous straight 
line, but followed the windings and turnings 
of this many-curved shore. Sometimes it was 
cut through solid ledges of rock ; sometimes it 
was carried on bridges over deep gorges and 
chasms, wide at the top and narrowing towards 
the bottom, where a slender stream tri[)ped 
down to the sea. The sides of these glens 
were often planted with orange and lemon 
trees ; and we could look down u])on their 
rounded toj).s — presenting with their dark- 


green foliage, their bright and ahnost lumin- 
ous fruit, and their snowy blossoms, the finest 
combination of colors which the vegetable 
kingdom, in the temperate zone at least, can 
show. The scenery was in the highest degree 
grand, beautiful, and picturesque, with the 
most animated contrasts and the most abrupt 
breaks in the line of sight, yet never savage or 
scowling. The mountains on the left were 
not bare and scalped, but shadowed with for- 
ests and thickly overgrown with shrubbery ; 
such wooded heights as the genius of Greek 
])oetry would have peopled with bearded satyrs 
a. id buskined wood-nymphs, and made vocal 
with the reeds of Pan and the hounds and 
horn of Artemis. 

All the space near the road was stamped 
with the gentle impress of human cultivation. 
Fruit-trees and vines were thickly planted ; 
garden vegetables were growing in favorable 
exposures; and houses were nestling in the 
hollows, or hanging to the sides of the cliff. 
Over the whole region there is a smiling ex- 
pression of wooing and invitation, to which 
the sparkling sea murmured a fitting accom- 
paniment. No pitiless ice and granite chill 
or wound the eye ; no funereal cedars and pines 
darken the mind with their arctic shadows ; 
but bloom and verdure, thrown over rounded 
surfaces, and rich and gay forms of foliage, 
mantling gray cliffs or waving from rocky 
ledges, give to the face of Nature that mixture 
of animation and softness which are equally 
fitted to soothe a wounded spirit or restore an 
over-tasked mind. 

If one could only forget the existence of 
such words as " duty" and " progress," and step 
aside innu the rushing stream of outward- 
moving life, and be content with being merely 
and not doing; if these lovely forms could fill 
all the claims and calls of one's nature ; and all 
that we ask of syuil>athy and companionship 
could lit' found in mountain breezes and break- 


iiig waves; if days passed in communion witli 
Nature, in wliich decay is not hast(Mii'<l \>y 
anxious vigils or aniKitious toils, made u\t tin; 
sum of life — where, could a better retreat l>e 
found than along tliis endianting coast ? lUve 
are tin; mountains, and there is the sea. Kero 
is a climate of delicious s<iftness, where no ex- 
tremes of heat and cold put a strife between 
man and nature. Here is a smiling and good- 
natured jiopulation, among whom no (pn^stion 
of religion, politics, science, literatun-, or Ini- 
inanity is ever discussed, and the surface of the 
placid liours is not ruffled by argument or con- 
tradiction. Here a man could hang and ri[)en 
like an orange on the tree, and drop as gently 
out of life upon the bosom of the earth. 

There is a line couplet of Virgil, which is 
full of that tenderness and sensibility which 
fniMu the highest charm of his poetry, as they 
prol)ablv did of his character, and they came 
to my mind in driving along this l)eautiful 
road : — 

" Hie gelidi fontes ; hie mollia prata, Lycori ; 
Hie nenius; hie ipso tecum consumere an'o." 

" Here cooling fountains roll through llowing 

Ifere woods, Lycoris, lift their verdant heads, 
Here could I wear my careless life away. 
And in thy arms insensibly decay."' 

There is something in the musical tlow of 
these lines which seems to ex[)ress the move- 
ment of a quiet life, from which day after day 
loosens and falls, like leaf after leaf from a tree 
in a calm day of Autumn. But Virgil's air- 
castle includes a Lycoris ; that is, symjiathy, af- 
fection, and the lieart's daily food. With these, 
fountains, meadows, and groves may be dis- 
pensed with ; and without them, they are not 
much better than a painted panorama. To have 
something to do, and to do it, is the best ap- 
pointment for us all. Nature, stern and coy, 
reserves her most dazzling smiles for those who 


have earned them by hard work and cheerful 
sacrifice. Planted on these shores, and lapped 
in pleasurable sensations, man woiild tui-ii into 
an indolent dreamer and a soft voluptuary. 
He is neither a fig nor an orange; and he 
thrives best in the sharp air of self-denial, and 
on the rocks of toil. — tSt'x JMonths in Italy- 


For tht! knowledge that comes from books 1 
would claim no more than it is fairly entitled 
to. I am well aware that there is no inevita- 
ble connection between intellectual cultivation, 
on the one hand, and individual virtue or social 
well-being, on the other. " Tlie Tree of Knowl- 
edge is not the Tree of Life." I admit that 
genius and learning are sometimes found in 
combination witii great vices, and not unfre- 
quently with contemptible weaknesses ; and 
that a community at once cultivated and cor- 
rupt is no impossible monster. Uut it is no 
overstatement to say tliat — other things being 
equal — the man who has the greatest amount 
of intellectual resources is in tlie least danger 
from inferior temi)tations ; if for no otlier 
reason, because he has fewer idli' moments. 
The ruin of most men dates from some vacant 
hour. Occupation is tlie armor of the soul, 
and the train of idleness is borne u[) liy all the 
vices. I remember a satirical poem in which 
the devil is represented as fishing for incn, and 
adapting his baits to the taste and tempera- 
ment of his prey ; but the idler, he said, pleased 
liim most, because he bit the naked hook. 

To a young man away from liome, friendless 
and forlorn iji a great city, the hours of ]t(ril 
art! those between sunset and bedtime — for tlie 
n)oon and stars see more of evil in a single 
hour than the sun in his whole day's «-ircuit. 
The poet's visions of evening are all compa<t 
of tender and soothing images. It brings the 
wand^^rer to his home, the child to his niollier's 
arms, the ox to his stall, and the weary laborer 


(}EOiu;k ,s'nI,l,^r vn' iiim.aki).— o 

to liis rest. I'>iit to the fijeutle-licarted 3'outh 
wlio i.s thrown upon tlie rocks i>f a plti- 
U'ss city, and stands " homeless auiid a ihou- 
saiid lionies," tlie approach of evening brings 
witli it an aching sense of loneliness and deso- 
lation which comes down upon the spirit like 
darkness u2)on the earth. In this mood his best 
im[)uls(fs become a snare to him, and he is led 
astray because he is social, affectionate, sym- 
patlu'lic. and warm-hearted. If there be a 
young mail thus circumstanced within the 
sound of my voice, let me say to him that books 
are the fi-icnds of the frieiulK'ss, and that a 
library is the home of the homeless. A taste 
tor readjng will always carry you into the best 
](ossible company, and enable you to converse 
with men who will instruct 3'ou by their 
wisdom and charm you by their wit ; who will 
soothe you when fretted, refresh you when 
weary, counsel you when perplexed, and sym- 
j)athi/e with you at all times. Evil sj)irits, in 
the Middle Ages, were exorcized and driven 
away by bell, book, and candle ; you will 
want but two of these agents — the book and 
till' candle. — Address before the Mercantile 
JAhrary Association., 1850. 



HILLHOUSE, James Abraham, an 
Ameiicaa poet, born at New Haven, Conn., 
in 1789 ; died there in 1841. He gradu- 
ated at Yale in 1808, and in 1812 delivered 
a poem. The Judgment, a Vision, before 
the Phi Beta Kappa Society of the college. 
He engaged successfully in mercantile 
business in New York. In 1819 he visited 
England, where he published Percy's 
Masque, a drama. In 1822 he took up his 
residence at his country seat near New 
lliiven. His drama, Hadad, was published 
in 1825, and in 1839 appeared a collection 
of his writings under the title, Dramas, 
Discourses, and other Poems. The most 
important of his works is Hadad, the scene 
of which is laid in Jerusalem in the time 
of King David. Hadad is a Syrian Prince 
who has fallen in love Avith Tamar, daughter 
of David and sister of Absalom, wlio insists 
upon liis renouncing idolatry and becoming 
a worshipper of Jeliovah. 


Tarn, (solus). — How aromatic evening grows ! 
The llowers 
And spicy sln-uhs exhale like onycha ; 
Spikenard and lienna enuilate its sweets, 
lilessed hour! wliicli he who fasliioned it so fair, 
So softly glowing, so contenijilative, 
I lath set, and sanctilied to look on )nan. 
And lo ! the smoke of evening saoriiiee 
Ascends from out the tabernacle. — Heaven 
Accept the expiation, and forgive 
'I'his day's offenses. Ha! tlie wonted strain, 
J'recursor of liis coming! Whence came this? 
It seems to flow from some unearthly land. 

[/vnter ]I<(dad.'\ 
JIad. — Does beauteous Tamar view in this 
dear fount 
Herself or heaven ? 



Tani. — Now, Ifadad, tell lue wlieiico 
Thesti sad, mysterious sounds ? 

Had. — What sounds, di-ar princess '! 

Tarn. — Surely, thou knowest ; and now 1 al- 
most think 
8ome spiritual creature waits on thee. 
JIad. — 1 heard no sounds but such as evening 

Up from tlie city to these <|uiet shades — 
A hleiided murmur, sweetly harmonizing 
With llowing fountains, feathered minstrelsy, 
And voices fron\ the hills. 

Tain. — The sounds I mean 
Floated like mournful music round my head 
From unseen fingers. 

Jlad.-=-\Nhcn ? 

Tain. — Now, as thou earnest. 

JIad. — 'Tis but thy fancy, wrought 
To ecstacy ; or else thy grandsire's harp 
Resounding from his tower at eventide. 
I've lingered to enjoy its solemn tones 
Till the broad moon that rose o'er Olivet 
Stood listening in the zenith ; yea, have deemed 
Viols and heavenly voices answer him. 

Tuf/i,. — But these — 

Ifrd. — Were we in Syria, I might say 
The Naiad of the fount, or some sweet Nymph, 
The goddess of these shades rejoiced in thee, 
And gave thee salutations; but I fear 
Judah would call me infidel to Moses. 

Ta//i. — How like my fancy ! AVhcn these 
strains precede 
Thy steps, as oft they do, 1 love to think 
Some gentle being who delights in us 
Is hovering near, and warns me of thy coming ; 
But they are dirge-like. 

/I(i(/. — Youthful fantasy 
Attuned by sadness, makes them seem so, lady ; 
So evening's charming voices, welcomed ever 
As signs of rest and peace ; — the watchman's 

The closing gates, the Levite's mellow trump, 
Announcing the returning moon, the pipe 


Of swains, the bleat, the bark, the housing bell, 
Send melanchol}' to a drooping soul. 

Tain. — But how delicious are the pensive 
That steal upon the fancy at their call ! 

Had. — Delicious to behold the world at rest ! 
Meek labor wipes his brow, and intermits 
The curse, to clasp the younglings of his cot; 
Herdsmen and shepherds fold their flocks — and, 

hark ! 
What merry strains they send from Olivet ! 
The jar of life is still ; the city speaks 
In gentle murmurs; voices chime with lutes. 
Waked in the streets and gardens : loving pairs 
Eye the red west, in one another's arms ; 
And nature, breathing dew and fragrance, yields 
A glimpse of happiness, which He, who formed 
Earth and the stars had power to make eternal. 
7awi.— Ah, Hadad, meanest thou to reproach 
the Friend 
Who gave so much, because he gave not all ? 
Had. — Perfect benevolence, methinks, had 
Unceasing happiness, and peace, and joy; 
Filled till! wIkjIo universe of human licarts 
With pleasure, like a flowing spring (if life. 
Tam. — Our l*roi)het teaches so till man re- 
7y,,«'. —Mighty rebelli(jn ! Had lie leaguered 
With beings powerful, numlierless, and dreadful, 
Strong as the enginery that rocks the workl 
When all its pilhwrs tremble; mixetl the flres 
Of onset with annihilating bolts 
Defensive volleyed from tlie throne ; this, this 
Had been r(^1)elli(tn worthy of the nanu*. 
Worthy of punishment. Hut what did man ? 
Tasted an apj)i(! ! and the fragile scene, 
Eden, and innocence, and human bliss. 
The nectar-riowing streams, life-giving fruits, 
Celestial shades, and aniarantbinc! flowers. 
Vanish ; and sorrow, toil, and pain, and death, 
(Jleavo to him by an everlasting curse. 


Tarn. — Ah ! talk not thus. 
Had. — Is this benevolence ? 
Nay, loveliest, these things sometimes trouble 

me ; 
For I was tutored in a brighter faith. 
Our Syrians deem each lucid fount, and stream, 
Forest, and mountain, glade and bosky dell, 
Peopled with kind divinities, the friends 
Of man — a spiritual race, allied 
To him by many sympathies, who seek 
His happiness, inspire him with gay thoughts, 
C(i<j1 with their waves, and fan him with their 

O'er them the Spirit of the Universe, 
Or soul of Nature, circumfuses all 
AVith inild, benevolent, and sunlike radiance ; 
Pervading, warming, vivifying earth. 
As spirit does the body, till green herbs, 
And beauteous flowers, and branchy cedars rise ; 
And shooting stellar influence through bereaves, 
AVheiic*! minerals and gems imbibe their lustre. 
Taui. — Dreams, liadad, empty dreams. 
Had. — These deities 
They invocate with cheerful, gentle rites. 
Hang garlands on their altars, heap their shrines 
With nature's bounties — fruits and fragrant 

Not like yon gory mount that ever reeks. 
Tarn. — Cast not reproach upon the holy altar. 
Had. — Nay, sweet. — Having enjoyed all 
pleasures here, 
That Nature prompts — but chiefly blissful 

lovo^ — 
At death the happy Syrian maiden deems 
Her immaterial Hies into the fields. 
Or cir(;uinamliient clouds, orcrystal brooks. 
And dsvells, a Deity, with those she wor- 
Till Tinu! or Fate return her in its course 
To tpiaf'f once nutre the cup of human joy. 
^J\im. — l>ut thou believest Jiot this? 
Had. — 1 almost wish 
Thou didst ; for I have feared, my gentle Tamar, 



Thy spirit is too tender for a law 

Announced in terror, coupled with the threats 

Of an inflexible and dreadful Being. 

Tarn. — Witness, ye heavens ! Eternal Father 
witness ! 
Blest God of Jacob ! Maker ! Friend ! Preserver ! 
Tliat with my heart, my undivided soul, 
I love, adore, and praise thy glorious Name, 
Confess thee Lord of all, believe thy laws 
Wise, just, and merciful, as they are true. 

lladad ! Hadad ! you misconstrue much 
The sadness that usurps me. 'Tis for thee 

1 grieve — for hopes that fade — for your lost 

And my lost happiness. 
Had. — Oh, say not so 
Beloved princess. Why distrust my faith ? 
Tarn. — Thou knowest, alas ! my weakness ; 
but remember, 
I never, never will be thine, although 
The feast, the blessing, and the song were past, 
Though Absalom and David called me bride, 
Till sure thou ownest, Avith truth and love sin- 
The Lord Jehovah. 

iiauad's description of tiik citv of ziox. 

'Tis so : — the hoary harper sings aright ; 

How beautiful is Zion ! Like a (jueen 

Annetl with a helm, in virgin loveliness, 

Her heaving liosom in a bossy cuirass, 

Slie sits aloft, l»egirt with battlements 

And bulwarks swelling from tlie rock, to guard 

Tlie sacred courts, pavilions, palaces, 

{50ft gleaming through tlie verdure of the 

Which tuft her summit, aiul, like raven tresses, 
Wave their dark beautv round the tower of 

l-fesplcndcnt with a thousand golden Inicklcrs, 
The i-nibnisuns of alabaster shine ; 
liaili'd by the jiilgrinis of the desert, bound 
To Judah's mart with orient merchandiso. 


]iiit not for tlum art fuir and tiinvt-crDWiiccl, 
Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and hlest 
AVith j;ohh'n fruits, and },'ales of franliincense, 
Dwell 1 beneath thine anijde curtains. Here, 
Where saints and propliets teach, where the 

stern hiw 
Still si)eaks in thunder, wliere chief angels 

And where the Glory hovers, here I war. 



HIRST, Henry Beck, an American 
poet, born in 1813 ; died in 1874. In 1843 
he was admitted to the bar. His first 
poems appeared in Cirahains Magazine. 
He is the author of three volumes of poet- 
ry: The Coming of the Mammoth; the 
Funeral of Time, and other Poems (1845), 
Undgmion, a Tale of Crreece (1848), and 
The Penance of Poland, a Pomance of the 
Peine Forte et Dure, and other Poems 
(1849 ) 


Through a deep dell with mossy hemlocks 
girded — 
A dell by many a sylvan Dryad prest — 
Which Latmos' lofty crest 
Filing half in shadow — where the red deer 
herded — 
While mellow murmurs shook the forests 
^ gray— 
Endymion took his way. 

Like clustering suidight fell his yellow tresses, 
With purple fillet, scarce confining, hound, 
Winding tlicir flow around 
A snowy throat tliat tlirilled to their caresses, 
And trembling on ii breast as lucid white 
As sea-foam in the night. 

His girdle held his ])ipes — those pipes that 
Through Carian mead(nvs mocked the night- 
AVlien H('Sj)or lit the vale : 
And now the youth was faint, though stepping 
Supported by his shepherd's crook, he strode 
Toward his reinoti! altode. 

Mount Latmos lay liefore him. Gently gleam- 
A roseate halo from the twilight dim 
Hung round its crown. To him 

The rougli ascent was liglit ; for, far off, beam. 

Orion rose — and Siriiis, like a sliiclil, 
Slione on the azure field. . . . 

And from the south — the yellow south, all 
With blandest beauty — came a gentle breeze, 
iMurmuring o'er sleeping seas, 
Which, bearing dewy damps, and lightly flowing 
Athwart his brow, cooled his hot brain, and 
Like nectar to his soul. 

Endymion blessed the wind ; his bosom swell- 
As his parched lips drank in the luscious 
His eyes, even while he quaffed, 
Brightening; his stagnant blood again up- 
From his warm heart; and freshened, as 
with sleep, 
He trod the rocky steep. 

At last he gained the top, and, crowned witli 
The moon, arising from the Latmian sea, 
Stepped o'er the heavenly lea. 
Flinging her misty glances, meek and tender 
As a young virgin's o'er his marble brow 
That glistened with their glow. . . . 

Endymion watched her rise, his bosom burn- 
AVith i)rincely thoughts, for though a shej> 
herd's son. 
He felt that Fame is won 
By high aspirings ; and a lofty yearning. 

From the bright blossoming of his boyish 
Made his deeds those of praise. 

Like hers, his track was tranquil ; lie had 

11 •^' 


By slow degrees the glorious, golden lore, 
Hallowing his native shore ; 
And when at silent eve his flock was tethered, 
He read the stars, and drank, as from a 
Great knowledge from their gleam. 

And so he grew a dreamer — one who, panting 
For shadowy objects, languished like a bird 
That, striving to be heard 
Above its fellows, fails, the struggle haunting 
Its memory ever, forever the strife pursuing 
To its own dark undoing. 

And still the moon arose, and now the water 
Gleamed like a golden galaxy, star on star ; 
And down, deep down, afar 
In the lazulian lake, Latona's daughter 

Imaged, reclined, breathing forth light, that 
Like mist at evening close. — Endymion, 


The woods are almost bare ; the mossy trees 

Moan as their mottled leaves are hurried by, 
Like sand before the Simoon, over the leas, 
Yellowing in Autumn's eye. 

And verv 0(»ld tlie bleak Xovember wind 

Shrills from the black ISTor'-West, as fitfully 
The gusts, like fancies thi-ough a maniac mind 
Eddying to and fro. 

Borne, like those leaves, with piercing cries on 
Tlie Robins come, their wild autumnal wail 
From where they 2>ass, dutting the angry sky. 
Sounding above tlie gale. 

Down, scattered by the blast, along the glen, 
Over the browning ])lains, the (locks aliglit, 
Crowding the gum in highland or in fen, 
1'ired with their southern flight. 

Away, .away, flocking tliey pass, with snow 
Ajid hail and sleet beliind them, where tho 



Sliakos its griH'ii lotiks, and dclicatt! odors flow 
As from Koiiie fairy mouth. 

Silently })ass the wintry hours ; no song, 

No note, save a shrill querulous cry 
When the boy sportsman, cat-like, creeps along, 
The fence, and then — they fly, 

(/onipaiiionc(l ]\y the cautious lark, from field 

I'o Held tlicy journey, till the winter wanes, 
"When to some wondrous instinct each one 

And seek, our northern plains. 

ISFarch and its storms : no nuitter how the galo 
j\lay whistle round them, on, through snow, 
'and sU'et, 
And driving hale, they pass, nor ever (]uail 
AVith tireless wings and feet. 

Ti^rched here and there on some tall tree, as 
The misty dawn, loud, clarionet-like, rings 
Their matin hymn, while Nature also wakes 
From her long sleep, and sings. 

Gradually the flocks grow less, for, two b}'' two, 
The Kobins pass away, — each with his mate ; 
And from the orchard, moist with April dew, 
^\(• hear their pnitty j)rate. 

And from tlit; apple's sn(»wy blossoms come 
Gushes of song, while round and round them 
The busy, ])u/,zing bees, and, over them, hum 
The humming-birds aloud. 

The sparrow from the fence ; the oriole 

From the now Imilding sycamon^ ; tlie wren 
From the old hat ; tlie blue-bird from his hole 
Hard by the haunts ot nuMi ; 

The red-start from the wood-side; from the 

The black-idieek, and the martin in the air; 
The mournful wood-thrush from the forest 


WitU all of fair and rare, 


A.mong those blosoms of the atmosphere — 
The birds — our only sylphids — with one 
From mouiituiu side and meadow, far and near, 
Like them, at spring rejoice. 

May, and in happy pairs the Robins sit 

Hatching their young, — the female glancing 
From her brown nc-st. No one will trouble it, 
Lest heaven itself should frown 

On the rude act ; far from the smouldering 
On memor3''s hearth flashes the fire of 
And each one by its flickering light remembers 
How flocks of Robins brought 

In the old time, leaves ; and sang the while 
they covered 
The innocent babes forsaken. So they rear 
Their fledglings undisturbed. Often has 

While 1 have stood anear 

A Robin's nest, o'er me that simple story, 
Gently and dove-like, and I passed away 
Proudly, and feeling it as much a glory 
As 't was in Civsar's day 

To win a triumph, to have left tliat nest 

T^ntduched ; and many and many a school- 
boy time, 
Wlicn my sure gun was to my. shoulder prest, 
The thought of that old rhyme 

Came o'er mc, and I let the llohin go. — 

At last the young arc out, and to the woods 
All hav(! d('i)artc(l : Sununcr's sultry glow 
l^'inds I hem beside tlie floods. 

Then Autumn comes, and fearful of its rage 

They ilit again. Sn runs the Uobin's life; 
S]tring, Summer, Autumn, Winter sees its 


Unstained with care or strife. 


HITCHCOCK, Edward, an American 
geologist and author, born in IT'.tH ; died 
in 1864. He intended to enter Harvard 
College, but illness and impaired vision 
prevented. In 1815 he became })rincipal 
of the Academy at Deerfield, Mass., his 
native place. Three years later he entered 
the Yale Theological Seminary, and in 
1821 became pastor of a Congregational 
church at Conway, Mass. In 1S25 lie was 
appointed Professor of Chemistry and Nat- 
ural History at Amherst College, of which, 
twenty years later, he became President 
and Professor of Natural Theology and Geo- 
logy. In 1854 he resigned the ]n-esidency 
but he retained the j^rofessorship during life. 
While at Conway he made a survey of 
the western counties of Massachusetts, 
and in 1830 was appointed State Ge- 
ologist. Between this year and 1844 he 
completed the survey of the entire State. 
In 1836 he was appointed Geologist of 
New York, and in 1857 of Vermont. He 
soon resigned the former position, but he 
retained his position in Vermont until 
1861, publishing several annual reports, 
and a lieport on the G-eology of Vermont^ 
Descriptive^ Theoretical^ iJconomical, and 
)Sc('7i.o</r(iphic<il (18()1.) He was a member 
of the Massachusetts Pjoard of Agriculture, 
and a commissioner in 1850 to examine the 
agricultural schools of Europe. Among 
his works are a Report on the Creolo//ij, 
Mineralogji, Botmii/, and Zooloi/y of Mas- 
sachHsctts (1833), Re-Examination of the 
Ecotiomical.G coloi/i/ of Al((s.sachi(><('tf!< (1838), 
Elementarif Geoloy// (1840), R('(i(/iiii(S JjCC- 
tures on Pecidiar Phenomena of the Pour 
^Seasons (1850), Religion of Geology and its 



connected Sciences (1851), The Power of 
Christian Benevolence illustrated in the Life 
and Labors of Mary Lyon (1852), Religious 
Truth illustrated from Science (1857), Lch- 
nology of Neiv England (1858), and Remi- 
niscences of Amherst College (1863.) 


The niiiul delights in the prospect of again 
turning its attention to tliose brandies of 
knowledge which have engrossed and inter- 
ested it on earth, and of doing this under cir- 
cumstances far more favorable to their investiga- 
tion. And such an anticipation he may 
reasonably indulge who devotes himself on 
earth to any branch of knowledge not dependent 
on arrangements and organizations peculiar to 
this world. He may be confident that he is 
investigating those principles which will form 
a part of the science of lieaven. Should he 
ever reach that pui-e world, lie knows that the 
clogs which now weigh down his mind will 
drop off, and the clouds that obscure liis vision 
will clear away, and that a brighter sun will 
pour its radiance upon liis path. He is filling 
his mind with principles that are immortal. 
He is engaged in ])ursuits to which gloritied 
and angelic minds are devoting their lofty 
powers, (^ther branches of knowledge, highly 
esteemed among men, shall pass away with 
the destruction of this world. The baseless 
liypotheses of science, falsely so called, whetlier 
moral, intellectual, or ])hysical, and the airy 
])haiitoins of a light and lictitious literature 
shall all ])ass into the limbo of forgetful ness. 
]iut tlie principles of true science, constituting 
as they do the pillars of the universe, shall 
bear up tliat universe forever. 

How many cjuestions of deep int<'rest, re- 
specting his favorite science, must the j)liiloso- 
pher in this world h^ave unanswen^d, liovV 
many points unsettled ! Jiut when hi; stands 
ii[M)ii thw vantage-ground of anodier world, all 


these points sliall lie soon in tlie Itriglit trans- 
parencies of lieaven. J n tills world, the votaries 
of science may be coniitared with the aborigines 
who dwell around some of the j»rincipal sources 
of the Kiver Amazon. They have been able, 
perhaps, to trace one or two, or it may be a 
dozen of its tributaries, from their commence- 
ment in some mountain spring, and to follow 
them onwards as they enlarge by uniting, so 
as to bear along the the frail canoes, in which, 
perhaps, they pass a few hundred miles towards 
the ocean. On the right and on the left, a 
multitude of other tributaries swell the stream 
which carries them onward, until it seems to 
them a mighty river. But they are ignorant 
of the hundred other tributaries which drain 
tlie vast eastern slope of the Andes, and sweep 
over the wide plains, till their united waters 
have formed the majestic Amazon. Of that 
river in its full glory, and. especially of the 
immense ocean that lies beyond, the natives 
have no conception ; imless, perhaps, some in- 
dividual more daring than the rest, has floated 
onward till his astonished eye could scarcely 
discern the shore on either hand, and before 
him he saw the illimitable Atlantic, whitened 
by the mariner's sail and the crested waves ; 
and he may have gone back to tell liis unbe- 
lieving countrymen the mai'velous story. Just 
so is it with men of science. They are able to 
trace with clearness a few rills of truth from 
the fountain head, and to follow them onward 
till they unite in a great principle, which at 
first men fancy is the chief law of the universe. 
But as they venture still farther onward, they 
find new tributary truths coming in on either 
side, to form a principle or law still more broad 
and comprehensive. Yet it is only a few gifted 
and adventurous minds that are able, from 
some adv^ancod mountain-top, to catch a 
glimpse of the entire stream of truth, formed 
by the harmonious union of all jirinciplos, and 
flowing on majestically into the boundless 


ocean of all knowledge, the Infinite Mind. 
But when the Christian philosopher shall be 
permitted to resume the study of science in a 
future world, with powers of investigation en- 
larged and clarified, and all obstacles removed, 
he will be able to trace onward the various 
ramifications of truth, till they unite into 
higher and higher principles, and become 
one in that centre of centres, the Divine 
Mind. That is the Ocean from which all trutli 
originally sprang, and to which it iiltimately 
returns. To trace out the shores of that shore- 
less sea, to measure its measureless extent, 
and to fathom its unfathomable depths, will be 
the noble and joyous woi-k of eternal ages. 
And yet eternal ages may pass by, and see the 
work only begun. — The Rel'ujion of Geology. 


Let US now turn our steps to that huge pile 
of mountains called the White Hills of New 
Hampshire. We will approach them through 
the valley of the Saco River, and at the 
distance of thirty miles they will be seen loom- 
ing up in the horizon, with the clouds reposing 
beneath their naked heads. As the observer ap- 
proaches them, the sides of the valley will 
gradually close in upon him, and rise higher 
and higher, until he will find their naked 
granitic summits almost jutting over his path 
to the height of several thousand feet, seeming 
to form the very battlements of heaven. 
Now and then will he see the cataract leaping 
hundreds of feet down their sides, and the 
naked path of .some recent landslip, which car- 
ried death an<l desolation in its track. From 
this deep and wild chasm ho will at length 
emerge, and climb the vast ridge, until lie has 
seen the forest trees dwindle, and at length 
disai)])ear; and staTiding ui»on the nakecl sum- 
mit, immfmsity seems stretched out before him. 
lint he has not yet reached the highest point; 
anil far in the distance, and far above him, 

KDWAKl) II1TCJ1C0(;K.— 5 

Mount AViisliiiii^toii scums to rcjxiso in uwfiil 
maje.sty :i,L,r;i,iii.sL (Iio Iioiivoiis. Tiirninj^ liis 
course thitlu'r, lie follows tliu iiuriow and nuked 
ridge over oim |>i';ik altci' anotlier, lirsf rising 
U[»oii JNlount I'leasaiit, tin ii Mount k'lanldin, and 
then Mount Monroe, each lilting liini liiglici', 
and making the sea oi mountains around him 
more wide and IjiHowy, and tlie yawning gulfs 
oil either side more profounil and awful, so that 
every moment liis interest deepens, and n-arhes 
not its elinnix till In; stands ujion IVIount Wash- 
ington, when the vast jianorama is completed, 
and the world seems spread out at his feet. Yet 
it does not seem to ho a peopled world, for no 
mighty city lies heneath him. Jndeed, were it 
there, he would pass it almost unnoticed. For 
why shoidd he regard so small an ohjoct as u 
city, when the world is hefore him — a world 
of mountains, hearing the imj)ress of God's own 
liand, standing in solitary grandeur, just as he 
piled them u[> in jirimeval ages, aiid si ntching 
away on every si<le as far as the eye can reach Y 
On that pinnacle of the northern regions no 
sound of man or beast breaks in upon the awful 
stillness which reigns there, and which seems 
to bring the soul into near communion with the 
Deity. Jt is, indeed, the im2)ressive Sabbath 
of nature; and the soul feels a delightful awe, 
which can never be forgotten. tJladly would it 
linger there for hours, and converse with the 
mighty and the holy thoughts which come 
crowding into it; and it is oidy when the man 
looks at the rai)idly declining sun that he is 
roused from his reverie and commences his 
diiscendinginavch.— The lielit/ ion of Geoloyij. 


HITCHCOCK, RoswELL Dwight, an 

American clergyman and educator, born at 
East Machias, Maine, in 1817 ; died in 
1887. He was educated at Amherst and 
at Andover Theological Seminary, and in 
18-45 became pastor of a Congregational 
church in Exeter, N. H. While connected 
with this church, he studied for a year in 
the German Universities of Halle and 
Berlin. In 1852 he was made Professor 
of Natural and Revealed Religion at Bow- 
doin College, and in 1855 of Church His- 
tory in the Union Theological Seminary of 
New York cit}^ Of this Seminary he 
became President in 1880. He was made 
President of the American Palestine Asso- 
ciation, in 1871, and in 1880, Vice-Presi- 
dent of the American Geographical Society. 
He is the author of a Life of Ediva^-d Roh- 
inaon (1863), Co^nplete Analysis of the 
Bible (18139), and Socialism (1870.) In 
conjunction with Drs. Schaff and Eddy he 
com[)iled Tli/mns and Son</s for Social and 
Sabbath Worship (1875), and with Drs. 
Eddy and Mudge, Carmina Sacra (1885.) 
With Dr. Francis Brown he translated and 
edited The Teaching/ <f the Ttvelve Apostles 
(1884.) He was also one of the editors of 
Johnson s Cyclopoidia. 


I havo said tliat Communism is in tlie air. 
What is (Communism ? There is no mystery 
aliout it. It is simply tlie absorption oi the 
individual iu tlie community, the eitizen in 
the State. Tlie individual as such has no 
rights ; the community has ahsorbed them all. 
What the community ordains, must be done, 
or endured. Not relations only, but employ- 
ments, everything must be determined by the 
fkate. !Not only must everybody work, but 


everybody must do just the kind und just 
the amount of woi'k the community shall set 
him to do. In shoi-t, the Stutw uiuk'rt:ikt!s to 
do everything, or almost everything, wliich 
individuals and corporations iu)\v do. The 
IState owns all the lands and all the houses. 
All the railways, factories, and banks, and all 
the vessels. There is no more any private 
property or private business. No one shall 
even braid for himself a palm-leaf liat, or 
cobbh^ his own shoes. If it be answercMJ, that 
no one will wish to do any such thing for 
himself, having no occasion to do it, it follows 
that the present motives to industiy and 
economy will have ceased to operate. The 
inal)ility to better one's condition will have 
extinguished the desire to do it. The right 
to do it will be no longer dc^batable. All 
freedom has i)erished. The citizen is nothing, 
the State is all ; :ind, in a Kepublic, that all 
may be barely a majority of one, and that one 
carried drunk to the polls. One drunken voter 
may thus be master of us all. It is a monstrous 
doctrine. lint we have got something more to 
do than howl it down. It is a philosophy, and 
has got to be argued down. 

First of all, we should make it clear to our- 
selves, and so be prepared to make it plain to 
others, that the State is for the citizen, not the 
citizen for the State; society for the individual, 
not the individual for society. The greatest 
of teachers has said, that even God's Sabbath 
was made for man ; not merely to serve liim as 
he is, l>ut to make him still more of a man. 
Institutions are mortal ; men immortal. The 
historical, temporal judgment is of institutions 
and organisms. The linal judgment is of in- 
dividuals, each one of us all giving account of 
himself' to ixod. Personality is august. Con- 
sciously responsible to moral law, we must have 
perfect freedom, in order to be up to the re- 
sponsibility. And so the humblest of us has 
rights, which all the rest of us, banded to- 


gether, may not dare to touch. I have a right 
to my life ; and society, without my consent, 
shall not take it away, till it has been forfeited 
by crime. I have a right to ni}^ liberty ; and 
society shall not enslave me. I have a right 
to my property, whether earned or inherited ; 
and society shall not use it against my wishes, 
without appraisal, and indemnity. The final 
end of society is not itself but the individual. 
What will (xermany be good for, when a plain, 
godly peasant like Hans Lutlier of Eisleben 
is no longer possible ? Wliat shall we bo 
good for, when Paine's Af/e of lieason lias 
supjjlanted Butler's Analogy? Society of 
coui-se, has its sphere, its prerogatives, its 
authority. It may command me to assist the 
policeman in arresting a murderer. It may 
send me into battle. Society is under bonds 
to defend us all, in defending itself; and I am 
a party to the contract. Society may build its 
roads and bridges ; but wlien it crosses my 
meadow, or liurts my business, it must settle 
with me for the damage. Not to do it is 
Communism. Society may abate nuisances; 
but it may not undertake the organization of 
lalior or exchange. It may not tell me what I 
shall do for a living. I'liat society would only 
ruin our industries in ado})ting and trying to 
manage them, is almost demonstrable. Practi- 
cal business men who on succeeding in busi- 
ness, pronounce it a very foolish scheme, 
which lias alwa3's miserably failed. But tliis 
is the lesser argunuMit against it. It would 
be usur])ation and outrage. Tliese rights that 
I have named, rights of person an<l of ])roperty, 
are not inalienal)l(^ <"dy, but awfully sacred ; and 
soiufhow or otluT, sometime or other, the 
iiifriiigcmeiit of tliem is avenged. . . . 

I>ut rights imply duties; and duties rights. 
Society, in absorbing the individual, becomes 
responsible for his su])])ort; wliile the individ- 
ual, in being absorbi'd, becomes entitled to 
support. This was the doctrine of I'roudlion's 


famous Essay. Nature, ho said, is bountiful. 
She ha.s nia<hf ample iirovision for us all, if 
each could only get his part. Birth into the 
world entitles one to a living in it. This 
sounds both humane and logical. And it is 
logical. The right of society to absorb implies 
the duty to support ; while the duty of tlie 
individual to be absorbed, implies the right to 
be sup|)orted. Hut prenuise and conclusion are 
e(|uallv fals«. Society has no right to absorb 
the individual, and consequently is under no 
obligation to support him, so long as he is ablrt 
to support himself ; while the individual has 
no business to be absorbed, and no right to be 
supported. Experience has taught us to be- 
ware of the man who says that society owes 
him a living. The farmer has learned not to 
leave his cellar door open, when such theorists 
are about. Society has entered into no con- 
tract to sup])ort anybody who is able to sup- 
port himself, any more than Providence has 
entere<l into sucli a contract. I'rovidence 
certainly is a party to no such contract ; or 
there was a flagrant breach of contract in the 
Chinese famine lately ; and there have been a 
great many such breach(!S of contract, first and 
last. I read in an old book, which some (com- 
munists have called Agrarian, that the God of 
the Hebrews used to hear the young ravens 
when they cried ; but I do not read that no 
young raven ever starved. — Socialism. 



HOBART, John Henry, an American 
clergyman and author, born in 1775 ; died 
in 1830. He was educated at Princeton. 
In 1798 he was admitted to Holy Orders, 
in 1800 became an assistant clergyman of 
Trinity Church, New York, and was soon 
afterwards elected rector of that church. 
In 1811 he was chosen Assistant Bishop of 
New York. His diocesan labors were ar- 
duous and constant, his health was soon 
broken, and he was obliged to seek rest. 
After two years in Europe, he returned to 
his work, which he continued until his 
death. Among his publications are : An 
Apology for Apostolic Order (1807), The 
Christian s Manual and Aii Essay on the 
State of the Departed (1814), and two vol- 
umes of Sermons on Redemption. He also 
republished I)' Oyley and Mant's Family 
Bible (1818-20.) A Memoir and a volume 
of ids Sermons entitled, Fosthumotis Works 
of the late Iliyht Reverend John Henry 
JSobart, were published by his son in 1882. 


There is not a page of tlio sacred writings 
which is not ricli in the expressions of Crod's good- 
ness and mercy ; the most tender ami interest- 
ing comparisons, tlie most splendid and lively 
imagery, are used to set forth his infinite com- 
jtassion and love. Consider his grai;ious and 
c(nnforting declarations to the ])atriarchs ; liear 
liis affecting expostulations with liis })eople Is- 
rael ; listen to the flowing and suhlime strains 
in which the I'salmist celehrates the mercy 
and loving-kindness of the Lord; attend to tho 
exhihitions of his infinite grace and compas- 
sion which the apostles make the animating 
tlnune of their exhortations ; and you will not 
hesitate to acknowledge that the sacred writ- 
ings are calcidated to inspire a strong and un- 
failing hojK! in that Almighty Being who is *'a 

JOHN jiknj:v ii()i;ai;t.— 2 

stronj^lli ;iiitl ii'l'iigi', ii very jireseiiL licl|) in tiiiic 
of troultli','"' and who "makes all tliiii;^.s wm'lc 
togetlier for good to those wJio love liini." Even 
of liis judgments it is the graci'ms purpose to 
bring us to repentance, and the rod of his 
anger is guided hy the arm of mercy. 

The example of holy men recorded in Scrip- 
ture, who have experienced his merciful bless- 
ing and |irote(!tion, j)o\verfidly tends to strength- 
en our hope and to administer to our consola- 
tion. Was Noah saved from the destruc-tion 
which overwhelnuMl an ungodly world ? AV'as 
Abraham guided and protected while lie so- 
journe<l in a strange country ? Were tlu; 
machinations b}' which the envious brethren of 
Joseph sought his destruction defeated, and 
made the means of liis advancement and pros- 
])erity ? Was the whole life of the King of 
Israel a series of deliverances and mercies ? AVas 
the suffering Job, when the hand of God was 
upon him, inspired with a faith and hoj)e that 
no sophistry nor taunts could shake, and blessed 
in his latter end more than in his beginning V 
God is the same j-esterdiiy, t(»-day, and forever ; 
their example, therefore, and the example of all 
the holy saints recorded in Scripture, servi' to 
support us under the ills of life, to strengthen 
our faith and patience, to animate our hope in 
God; he is still the strength of his people. 
These '' things were written for our learning, 
that we, through patience and comfort of the 
8crij)tures, might have hope. In the Scriptui-es 
of truth, then, we thus find God revealed as our 
Almighty (xuardian and Father ; and our hope 
is strengthened by the most affecting jtromises 
and animating examples. If the sacred writ- 
ings advanced no further, the pious reader of 
them might still find consolation and hope. 
But it is their principal aim to delineate and 
nnfold the spiritual and everlasting salvation 
of the Lord Jesus (/hrist ; and in this respect 
especially they raise the exercise of hope to its 
highest fervor and enjoyment. — Posthumous 



HOBBES, Thomas, an Englisli philos- 
opher, born in 1588 ; died in 1G70. His 
father was a clergyman, by whom he was 
sent at the age of lifteeii to Magdalen Col- 
lege, Oxford, where for five years he de- 
voted liimself to the study of logic and the 
Aristotelian philosophy. He became pri- 
vate tutor to several j^oung noblemen, 
with whom, at various times, lie travelled 
on the Continent. In 1640, on the approach 
of the civil war, he wont to Paris, where 
he resided for ten years. In 1642 he was 
appointed mathematical tutor to the Prince 
of Wales, afterwards King Charles II., who 
then resided at Paris. The later years of 
his life were })assed at the seat of the Earl 
of Devonshire, who had formerly been his 
pupil. Ilobbes wrote largely in both. Eng- 
lish and Latin. His principal works are: 
Elementa Fhiloaophica de Give (1642), 
Human Nature and De Corpore Politico 
(1650), Leviathan^or the Matter, Form and 
Potver of a Commonwealth, Ecelcnastical 
and Political (1651), A Letter on Lib- 
erty and Neces>>itij (1654), Decameron 
Physioloyicum (1678), Autobiography, in 
Latin verse, translated by himself into 
English verse (1679), Behemoth, or the 
IliHtory of the Civil Wars in England, 
})ublished soon after his death. A com- 
})lete edition of the Work^ of Hobbes, in 
16 vols., edited by Sir William Moles- 
worth, apoeared in 1831>-1845. 


Forasinu(;li iis God Ahniglity is inconipro- 
hensible, it followoth tliat wo can liave no con- 
ception or imaf^c of tlio Doity ; and, conso- 
qnently, :iH liis attributes signify our in;ihility 
and defect of power to conceive any tiling con- 
cerning his nature, and not any conception of 



the same, except only this, Th;it there is :i, 
God. For tlie ef't'ects, we ackuowledge, iiatur- 
ally Jo inchule a power of their prodiiciiij^, he- 
fore tliey were produced ; and tliat powtir 
prcsupposetli something existent th;it hatli 
sucli power : and tlie tiling so existing with 
power to produce, if it were not eternal, must 
needs have heen jiroduced hy somewhat hefore 
it, and that, again, hy something else Ix'fore 
that, till we come to an eternal — that is to say, 
the lirst — I'ower of all I'owers, iind first Cause 
of all Causes : and this it is which all men 
conceive hy the name of Goi>, implying eternity, 
incomprehensibility, and omnipotency. And 
this all that will consider may know that God 
is, though not what he is : even a man that is 
born blind, though it be not possible for him 
to have any imagination what kind of thing 
fire is, yet he cannot but know that something 
there 'is that men call lire, because it warmeth 


The question is not, whether a man be a 
free agent, that is to say, whether he can write 
or forbear ; speak or be silent, according to 
his will ; but whether the will to write, and 
the will to forbear, come upon him according 
to his will, or according to anything else in 
his own power. I acknowledge this liberty, 
that I can do if I loill ,' but to say, I can will 
if I tcill, I take to be an absurd speech. 

It is true, very few have learned from tutors, 
that a man is not free to will ; nor do they 
find it much in books. That they find in 
books, that which the poets chant in the 
theatres, and the shepherds on the mountains, 
that which the pastors teach in the churches, 
and the doctors in the universities, and that 
which till' common j)eople in the markets and 
all mankind in the whole woi-ld do assent unto, 
is the same that I assent unto — namely, that a 
man hath freedom to do if he will ; but whether 
12 '" 


lie liath freedum to will, is a question which it 
seems neither the hishop nor they ever thought 
on. A wooden top that is lashed by the boys, 
and runs iibout, sometimes to one wall, some- 
times to another, sometimes spinning, some- 
times hitting men on the shins, if it were 
sensible of its own motion, would think it pro- 
ceeded from its own will, uidess it felt what 
lashed it. And is a man any wiser when he 
runs to one place for a benefice, to another for 
a bargain, and troubles the world with writing 
errors and requiring answers, because he thinks 
he does it without other cause than his own 
will, and seeth not what are the lashings that 
cause that will ? 


Seeing that truth consisteth in the right or- 
dering of names in our affirmations, a man 
that seeketh precise truth hath need to remem- 
ber what every name he useth stands for, and 
to j)lace it accordingl}', or else he will find him- 
self entangled in Avords as a bird in lime-twigs 
— the more he struggles, the more belinied. 
And therefore in geometry, which is the only 
science that it hath pleased (xod hitherto to be- 
stow on mankind, men begin at settling the 
significations of their wtu'ds ; which settling of 
significations they call definitions, and place 
them in the beginning oi their reckoning. 

By this it appears how necessary it is for 
any man that asj)ires to true knowledge to ex- 
amine the definitions of former authors ; and 
either to correct them where they are negli- 
gently set down, or to make them himself. 
For the errors of definitions multiply them- 
selves according as the reckoning proceeds, 
and lead men into absurdities, which at last 
the}' see, but cannot avoid without reckoning 
anew from the beginning, in which lies the 
foundation of their errors. From whence it 
happens that they which trust to books do as 
they that cast up many little sums into a 


greater, without considering whether those 
little sums were rightly cast up or not ; and at 
last, finding the error visible, and not mistrust- 
ing their first grounds, know not which way to 
clear themselves, hut spend time in tiuttering 
over their hooks, as birds that, entering by the 
chimney, llutter at the false light of a glass 
window, for want of wit to consider which way 
they came in. So that in the right definition 
of names lies the first use of speech, which is 
th(! acfpiisition <>l science, and in wrong or no 
definitions lies the first abuse; from which ])ro- 
ceed all false and senseless tenets, which make 
those men that take their instruction from the 
authority of hooks, and not from their own 
meditation, to be as much below the condition 
of ignorant men as men endued with true 
science are above it. For between true science 
and erroneous doctrines, ignorance is in the 
middle. Natural sense and imagination are 
not subject to absurdity. Nature itself cannot 
err ; and as men abound in copiousness of lan- 
guage, so they become more wise or more mad 
than ordinary. Nor is it jwssible without let- 
ters for any man to become either excellently 
wise, or, unless his memory be hurt by disease 
or ill constitution of organs, excellently fo(dish. 
For words are wise men's counters — they do 
hut reckon by them — but they are the money 
of fools, that value them by the authority of an 
Aristotle, a Cicero, or a Thomas, or any other 
doctor whatsoever, if but a man. 


HODGE, Archibald Alexander, the 
son of Dr. Charles Hodge, an American 
clergyman and author, born in 1823 ; died 
in 1886. He was educated in the College 
and in the Theological Seminary at Prince- 
ton. He then spent three years in India 
as a missionary. From 1851 to 1864 he 
had charge of churches in Maryland, Vir- 
ginia, and Pennsylvania. He then became 
Professor of Didactic Theology in the 
Western Theological Seminary of AUe- 
glieny. Pa. At the same time he was pas- 
tor of a Presbyterian church. In 1877 he 
became Associate Professor of Theology 
at Princeton, and on his father's death 
succeeded him in his professorship. His 
works are: Outlines of Theology (1860), 
The Atonement (1868), A Commentary on 
the Confession of Faith (1869), The Life 
of Charles Hoih/e (1880), Manual of Forms 
(1883), and Popular Lectures on Theologi- 
cal Theories (1887.) 


The controversies were all past. The old 
warrior hung liis arms ujion the wall, as he 
rested under the clear skies of universal peace. 
He still followed and took interest in the con- 
flict of opinion. liut his own part was done. 

His heart was filled with hope and joy, as 
his face was made to shine by Him who was 
"the health of his countenance, and his God." 
lie had no disa])p()intments, no vain regrets; 
the past with all its contents he offered through 
Christ to God. He had no fears for the future, 
for there is no fear in love ; perfect love had 
cast out all fear. He liad Jio jealoiisies ; ho 
retained the uneasy sense of no old wounds nor 
injuries. He loved all in the sense of benevo- 
lence, and in the higher sense he loved all tho 
brethren, admiring and sympatliizing in their 
graces, and sympathizing in their conflicts and 


their joys. And all parties, as far as ho was 
known, came to love him. The odmni theo- 
loyicmn, \\'\i\\ which he had been credited; 
butli as subject and occasion, met with a strange 
transfiguration. The storms of the day made 
the peace and beauty of the setting sun more 
rich and wonderful. Supreme devotion to truth 
was once again proven to be a genuine form of 
su])r('me hue to (rod and man. 

Tliere is always something essentially pa- 
thetic even in tl>e brightest and balmiest late 
autumnal day. To the eye of faith it is the 
season whigli prepares after the interval of a 
short sleep in winter, for a new and more 
glorious spring. But to the eye of sense, it is, 
nevertheless, the end of the year. So it was 
with the autumn of this life. Though he was 
generally well, he was weak, and often very 
weary. Though he was beautiful, it was the 
wasting beauty of the fading leaf. And this 
was in perfect accord with the spirit of liis own 
mind. Though he reclined with unwavering 
conlidence u])on a supernatural hope, his spirit 
and life were eminently natural. Though he 
had no fear, yot he had no desire to die. He 
looked beyond the world rather than rose en- 
tirely above it. His interest in all human 
things was genuine and strong, and his cheer- 
fulness was never failing, yet often tinged with 
a pathetic wistf ulness, arising from an habitual 
sense of the imminence of his own departure. 
He delighted more and more in reminiscences 
of past events and persons. The friends of his 
early years were all gone, but their memory 
was very precious. The improvements which, 
during these last years, were so extensively made 
in the buildings of the College and Seminary, 
interested him exceedingly, and he was glad 
that he was })rivileged to see them before the 
final closing of his eyes on all earthly scenes. 
— Life of Charles Hodge. 



HODGE, Charles, an American theo- 
logian, born in 1797 ; died in 1878. He 
was educated at Princeton, in both the 
College and the Theological Seminary, and 
in 1822 became Professor of Oriental and 
Biblical literature in tlie Seminary. Four 
years later he went to Europe and studied 
in Paris, Halle and Berlin until 1828. He 
tlien returned to his ])rofessional duties at 
Princeton, where, in 1810, he became Pro- 
fessor of Didaetic and Exegetical The- 
ology, and in 1852, of Polemical Theology. 
He was tlie founder, in 1825, of the Bihlical 
Repertorji^ afterwards the Bihlieal Reper- 
tory and Princeton Review^ and remained its 
editor until 1871, when it was reissued as 
the Presbyterian Quarterly and Princeton 
Revieiv. He published a Commentary on 
the Epistle to the Romans (1835), an en- 
larged edition of the same in 18GG, Consti- 
tutional History of the Preshifterian Church 
in the United States (1840-1), The Way of 
Life (1842), Commentary -on Ephesians 
(1850), Commentary on I. Corinthians 
(1857), Essays and Revieivs (1857), Com- 
mentary on II. Corinthians (18G0), What 
is Darwinism ? (1874), and Systematic The- 
oloyy (1871-2.) Some of his contributions 
to the Princeton Revieiv were reprinted in 
the Princeton Theoloyical Essays (184G-7.) 


The law is revealed in the constitution of 
our naturo, and more fully and clearly in the 
written ^Vord of (!o(l. That there is a binding 
revelation of the law, independently of any 
supernatural external revelation, is expressly 
taught in the l>ihle. I'aul says of the heathen 
that they are a law unto themselves. Theyhavo 
the law written on their hearts. This is proved 
l»o tella u.s, because they d<j, by nature, i. e., in 


virtue of tlic fonstitiitioii of lliuir iiaturtj, tliu 
tilings of tlio law. Tlie saim- moral act.s wliicli 
the written law prescribes, the conduct of the 
lieatheu shows lliat they know to be oljligatory. 
Hence their conscience approves or disapproves, 
as they obey or disobey this inwardly revealt;d 

What is thus tauglit in the Scrii»turc is con- 
firnied by conscience and experience. Every 
man is conscious of a knowledge of right and 
wrong, and of a sense of obligation, which are 
indejtendent of all external revelation, lie may 
be unable to determine whence that knowledge 
comes, lie knows, however, that it has been 
ill him- coeval with the dawn of reason, and has 
enlarged and strengthened just as his reason 
unfolded. His consciousness tells liim that the 
rule is within, and would be there though no 
positive or external revelation of duty existed. 
In other words, we do not refer tlie sense of 
moral obligation to an externally revealed law 
as its source, but to the constitution of our na- 
ture. This is not the experience of any class 
of men exclusively, but the common experience 
of the race. Wherever there are men there is 
the sense of moral obligation, and a knowledge 
of right and wrong. 

It is fre(|uently objet'ted to this doctrine that 
men differ widel}- in their moral judgments. 
AV'hat men of one age or century regard as 
virtue, men of other ages or centuries denounce 
as crimes. But this very diversity proves the 
existence of the moral sense. ]\Ien could not 
differ in judgments about beautj-, if the a3sthet- 
ic element did not belong to their nature. 
Neither could the}' differ in questions of moral- 
ity unless the sense of right and wrong were 
innate and universal. The diversity in (juostion 
is not greater tlian in regard to rational truths. 
That men differ in their judgments as to what 
is true, is no proof that reason is not a natural 
and essential element of their constitution. 
As there are certain truths of the reason which 


are intuitive and ]ierceived by all men, so tliere 
are moral truths so simple that they are univer- 
sally recognized. As beyond these nari'ow lim- 
its there is diversity of knowledge, so there 
must be diversit}'^ of judgment. IJut this is 
not inconsistent with the Scriptural doctrine 
that even the most degraded heathen are a law 
unto themselves, and show the work of the law 
written on their hearts. As the revelation 
which God has made of his eternal jiower and 
Godhead in his works is true and trustworth}'^, 
and sufticient to r^ender ignorance or denial of 
his existence inexcusable, while it does not 
supersede the necessity of a clearer revelation 
in his ^V.o^d; so there is an imperfect revelation 
of the law made; in t!ie very constitution of our 
nature, by whi(;li those who have no other rev- 
elation are to be judged, but which does not 
render unnecessary the clearer teachings of the 
Scriptures. — t^yHtematic Theology. 


One of the most difficult ])oints of knowledge 
is to know how much may be known ; to de- 
cide where the limits are to be placed to the 
speculations of the inquisitive mind of num. 
Neither philosophers nor theologians have, in 
any age, observed these limits, and the conse- 
quence has been, that philosoph}^ and theology 
instead of being a systematic arrangement of 
the phenomena of the material and spiritual 
world, so far as the}' come within the range of 
our (>l)S('rvation, or of the facts revealed in the 
word of God, are to so great an extent the use- 
less and contradii^tury speculations of men on 
things l)eyond the reach of our feeble jjowers. 
These sjiecuhitions, as it regards divine things, 
are so mixed and inwoven with the facts and 
principles contained in the sacred scriptures, 
that it is no task to determine, in every 
instance, what is revelation and what is human 
philosophy. Yet, with respect to almost every 
doctrine of the Christian faith, this is a task 
which every sincere inquirer after truth is 


called upon to ]i( rforin. The modes of conceiv- 
ing,' those (loctriiu's, in different minds and in 
different ages, are so various, that it is evident 
at tirst view, -tliat niucli is to be referred to the 
spirit of eaeli particular age, and to the state of 
mind of every individual. The history of the- 
ology affords so much evidence of the trutli of 
this remark, that it pro])ahly will not he called 
in question. It must not he supposed, liow- 
ever, that overytliing, eitlier in philosophy or 
theology is uncertain; that the one and the 
other is an ever-changing mass of unstable 
speculations. There are in each fixed prin- 
ciples and facts, which, although frequently 
derived by men whose minds have so little 
sense of truth, that evidence does not produce 
conviction, liave maintained and will maintain 
their liold on the minds and hearts of men. 
With regard to theology, the uniformity with 
which the great cardinal doctrines of our faith 
have been embraced, is not less remarkable than 
the diversit}'^ which has prevailed in the mode 
of conceiving and explaining them. — Princeton 
Theological JCssays. 



HOFFMAN, Charles Fenno, an 
American author, born at New York in 
1806 ; died in 1884. He entered Colum- 
bia College, but left without graduating ; 
was admitted to the bar in 1827, but soon 
devoted himself to literature and journal- 
ism. He was the first editor of the Knick- 
erhoeker 3Ia(/azine, and subsequently of 
other periodicals. In 1846 he became ed- 
itor of the Literary World ; but three years 
later a mental disorder incapacitated liim 
for intellectual labor, and the last thirty 
years of his life were passed in seclusion. 
At the age of eleven an accident rendered 
necessary the amputation of a leg ; but 
notwithstanding the artificial limb, he was 
a proficient in field sports. In 1833 he made 
a horseback tour in the Northwest, an ac- 
count of which was published under the 
title of A Winter in the West. In 1837 he 
pultlishcd Wild Scenes in Forest and Prairie ; 
and in 1846, (rrei/slaer, a Romance of the 
Hudson. He put forth at various times 
volumes of Poems, a complete collection 
of which, edited by his nephew, was brought 
out in 1874. 


"Let there be Light ! " The Eternal spoke ; 

And from the abyss where darkness rode, 
The earliest dawn of nature broke, 

And light around creation flowed. 
The glad earth smiled to see the day, 

The first-horn day came blushing in ; 
Tlie young day smiled to shed its ray 

Upon a world untouched by sin. 

" Let there 1>e Tjight ! " O'er lieavcns and earth, 
The (lod who first <he day-beam ])oiu'ed, 

Utterfwl again his fiat forth, 

And shed the (losjtel's light abroad 

And, like the dawn, its cheering rays 



On ricli and poor were meant to fall ; 
Inspirinj; their lleiloenu-rs praise. 
In luwly cut and lordly hall. 

Then come, when in the orient first 

Flushes the signal light for prayer; 
Come with the earliest beams that burst 

From God's bright throne of glory there. 
Come kneel to Jlini who through the night 

Hath watched above thy sleeping soul, 
To Him whose mercies, like his light, 

Are shed abroad from pole to pole. 


We were not many — we who stood 

Bef<ire the iron sleet that day : 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if then he could 

Have been with us at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot, it luiiled 

In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round them wailed 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on — still on — our column kept 

Through walls of fiame its withering way; 
Where fell the dead, the living stepped, 
Still charging on the guns that swept 
The slipi)ery streets of Monterey. 

The foe liinisclf recoiled aghast. 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swoojied his lianking batteries past, 
And, braving full their murderous blast, 
Stornifd lidine the towers of INIonterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave. 

And there our evening bugles jtlay ; 
Wher(! orange-boughs above their grave 
Keej) green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many — we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day; 

But wlio of us has not confessed 


He'd rather share their warrior rest, 
Than not have been at Monterey ? 


Sparkling and bright in liquid light 

Does the wine our goblets gleam in, 
With a hue as red as the rosy bed 

Which a bee would choose to dream in. 
Then fill to-night, with hearts as light 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the breaker's brim, 

And break on the lips while meeting. 

Oh ! if mirth might arrest the flight 

Of time through life's dominions, 
We here a while would now beguile 

The graybeard of his pinions. 
So drink to-night, with hearts as light 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 

And break on the lips while meeting. 

But since delight can't tempt the wight, 

Nor fond regret delay him, 
Nor Love himself can hold the elf, 

Nor sober Friendship stay him. 
We'll drink to-night, with hearts as light 

To loves as gay and fleeting 
As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. 

And break on the lips while meeting. 


HOFFMANN, August Heinkich, 
(^called VON Falleksleken, from las birth- 
place), a Geniiau poet and philologist, bori> 
in 1798; died in 1874. He was educated 
at Gottingen and at Bonn, and was des- 
tined for theology ; but, under the influ- 
ence of Grimm, became an enthusiastic 
student of Old German literature. On 
comi)leting his nniversity course, he trav- 
elled in Germany and Holland, collecting 
from the peasantry the remains of old bal- 
lads preserved among them. In 1830 he 
was appointed Professor of the German 
Language and Literature in the University 
of Breslau. Besides performing his pro- 
fessional duties he published several philo- 
logical works, a volume of ballad jjoetry of 
the middle ages, and some poems of his 
own. The appearance in 1840-41 of his 
Unpolitical jSo71</,'<, a collection having more 
to do with politics than their title indi- 
cated, led to his dismissal from the Univer- 
sity. For several years he wandered in 
Germany, Switzerland and Italy, every- 
where studying the language and literature 
of the country he was in. In 1845 ht, 
established himself in Mecklenburg, and 
three years later was recalled to Berlin by 
tlie King, and was granted a pension from 
the Crown. In 1854 he went to Weimar, 
and was one of the editors of the Year- 
Book. The last thirteen years of his life 
he was liln-ariau to the Duke of Ratisbon. 
His principal philological and historical 
works are Horace Beh/icoi (1830-52), 
Fundijruhenfiir Greschichte deutsche SpracJu. 
und Literatur (1830-37), Geschichte des 
deutschen JCirchenlicdes his auf Lutlier 
(1832), Reineke Voa (1834), Monumenta 
Slnonensia^ containing the Ludwi(/sUed^ 


discovered by Hoffmann in the library of 
Valenciennes (1837), Die deutsche Philo- 
logie in Grundriss (1836), Gesellschafts- 
lieder des IGtefi und llten Jahrhunderts 
(1844), Spenden zur deutschen Literatur- 
(/eschichte (1845), and Beitrdge zur Ge- 
schichte der deutschen Poede (1854). 
Among his poetical works are Allemanische 
Lieder (1826), Gedichte (1834), Unpolit- 
ische Lieder (40-41), Funfzi<i Kinderlieder 
and Deutsche Lieder aus der Schweiz (1S43), 
Vierziy Kinderlieder (1847), Lieherslieder 
(1850), Heimathklange (1850), Rhcinlehen 
(1851), and Lieder aus Weimar (1856.) 


Again my longing footsteps turned 
To that lov'd spot whence I did roam ; 

To those who lov'd me I returned, 

And liailed with joy my father's home. 

Familiar songs, sweet music's strain, 

ThriHed througli my hreast with lioly joy. 

My native liome I saw again, 

The realm of the once sportive boy. 

'Neatli blooming trees I hoped to find 
Tlie peaceful days that once I knew. 

Recall my childhood's dreams to mind, 
And like a child rejoice anew. 

Bent o'er ni}' staff, I longed to cease 

My weary j)ilgrimage so sad, 
Till in the gardon-grou7ul of peace 

My mother's grave in green was clad. 

l)Ut no ! the spring I may not see 

Again in my paternal home ; 
I am an exile, and must ilee. 

Alone in the wide world to roam. 

Trand. of J) askkkville. 


Kach with most rapture, liis own doth hchold; 

This one his maiilen, and that one his gold. 


Others may strive for possessions and j^ild, 
Hearts tliat are honest walk upright an<l bold. 

Were I aheggar, thou rich and of birth, 
Doth not love make ns both equal on earth ? 

Want also maketli me equal to you, 
Death will take one day the emperor too. 

Wherefore so mournful ? Dost deem it amiss, 
That thou didst lately present me a kiss ? 

Keep it I will not, 'twould bring me no gain ; 
Back will I give it, there, take it again ! 

Tra)isl. 0/'l^>ASKEKVILLE. 

I ask of thee wliat time can ne'er destroy. 

The beauty mirrored in the heart; 
I ask of thee, no vain, no worldly joy, 

Angelic childhood's counterpart. 

These are the greatest treasures of the heart, 
The brightest jewels life can wear. 

I cannot have thee if the world's thou art ; 
To me thou diest living there. — 

Transl. of BASKEU^aLLE. 


Hurra ! hurra ! luirra ! hurra ! 

We're off unto America! 

What shall we take to our new land ? 

All sorts of things from every hand! 

Confederation protocols ; 

Heaps of tax and budget rolls ; 

A whole ship-load of skins, to till 

With proclamations just at will. 

Or when we to the New AV^)rld come, 
The German will not feel at home. 

Hurra ! liurra ! hurra ! luirra ! 
We're off unto America ! 
What shall we take to our new land ? 
All sorts of things from every hand ! 
A brave su})ply of corporal's canes ; 
Of living suits a hundred wains; 
Cockades, gay caps to fill a house, and 


Armorial buttons a hundred thousand. 
Or when we to the N^ew World come, 
The Germans will not feel at home. 

Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! huri*a ! 

We're off unto America ! 

What shall we take to our new land ? 

All sorts of things from every hand ! 

Chamberlains' keys ; a pile of sacks ; 

Books of full-blood — descents in packs ; 

Dog-chains and sword-chains by the ton; 

Of order-ribbons bales twenty-one. 
Or when to the New World we come, 
The German will not feel at home. 

Hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! hurra ! 

We're off unto America ! 

What shall we take to our new land ? 

All sorts of things from every hand! 

Skull-caps, periwigs, old-world airs j 

Crutches, privileges, easy-chairs ; 

Councillor's titles, private lists, 

Nine hundred and ninety thousand chests. 
Or when to the New World we come, 
The German will not feel at home. 

Hurra! hurra! hurra! hurra! 

We're off unto America ! 

What shall we take to our new land ? 

All sorts of things from every hand ! 

Receipts for tax, toll, christening, wedding, and 
funeral ; 

Passports and wonder-books great and small ; 

Plenty of rules for censors' inspections. 

And just three million police-directions. 
Or when to the New World we come, 
The German will not feel at home. 

IVansl. o/'Baskerville. 


HOFFMANN, Eiinst Theodou Wil- 
HELM, a Geniiaii autlior, born in 177G; 
died in 1822. His father was a man of 
talent, but irregular in his liabits ; his 
mother was an iuviilid. The maniago was 
unliappy, and in 1782 the })arents sepa- 
rated, the elder Hoffmann going to Ister- 
berg as a judge, and his wife returning to 
her mother's house with their son. Tlio 
aged grandmother was virtually an invalid, 
and seldom left her room. A bachelor 
uncle endeavored to train the boy in his 
own habits of accuracy and precision. 
Young Hoffmann was first sent to the 
German Reformed School of Konigsberg, 
where he neglected his lessons, but applied 
himself to music and drawing. From school 
he entered the University of Konigsberg, 
studied law, graduated in 1795, and wiiile 
waiting for practice, gave lessons in music 
and painting. He also wrote two novels, 
Contaro^ixwd Ihr GreheimnissvoU, foi' which 
lie wa^s unable to liud a publisher. In 1796 
he went to CJlogau as assistant to an uncle, 
a lawyer. He now studied law assiduously, 
passed his second examination in 1798, and 
became Referendary in the Supreme C'ourt 
at Berlin. Having passed his linal exami- 
nation ({ualifyiug him for tiie oiVuie of 
judge in the highest courts of Prussia, he 
was reconuuended as Councillor in the 
Supreme Court of Posen. Here he led a 
dissij)ated life. At length he executed a 
number of caiieatures, satirizing the soci- 
ety of Posen. Tiicse were distributt'tl at 
a masquerade ball, by a friend disguised 
as an Itjilian hawker of pictures. As Hoff- 
man's cleverness at caricature was well 
known, his authorship of the drawings wajs 

1 '95 



'^. . . 

immediately guessed, and the indignation 

against him Avas so strong, that Iiis appoint- 
ment as Councillor to the Court of Poscn 
was exchanged for one at Plock, on the 
Vistula. Thither he went with his young 
Polish wife, and tliere he remained for 
two years, devoting his leisure to the study 
of music and Italian poetry. In 1804 he 
was transferred to Warsaw, where he be- 
came conductor of the orchestra. After 
the fall of Warsaw he sent his wife and 
children to Posen. After his recovery 
from a severe illness he went to Berlin to 
obtain some emplojmient. He obtained 
the post of musical director at the theatre 
of Bamberg ; the theatre became bankrupt, 
and he was reduced to occasional employ- 
/ ment as a musical composer. He now 
turned to authorship, and published in the 
Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, a series 
afterwards collected in 1814, under the 
title of Fantasiestiicke in Callots Manier. 
He composed a Miserere for the Grand 
Duke of Wurzburg, and the music for 
Kotzebue's opera. Das Crespenst. He tauglit 
music and drawing, painted portraits and 
theatrical scenes. In 1814 he returned to 
Berlin, where he was appointed to a clerk- 
ship in the department of the Minister of 
Justice, and two years later. Councillor of 
the Supreme Court of Berlin. In 1821 he 
was made a member of the Senate of 
Higher Appeal in the same court. 

With an assured position and a good in- 
come, lie was hcnoefortli released from 
anxiety. Die EUxire des Teufeh (181G), 
was followed by Nnchtittucke (^1817), a col- 
lc(!tion of tales. In 1819 appeared Die 
Si'ltsame Lit'den eines Tkeaterdirektor, il- 
lustrating the liistory of the German stage, 


and Klein Zachcs ijennant Zintwhcr, a fan- 
tastic tale. Among his later works are : 
Der Arturshqf, Der Fermata., Do'/e und 
Dogerexae^ Meisfer Martin der Keifner und 
seine (resellen^ Das Fraidein von Scuderi^ 
and Signor Formica. Tlie best of liis 
longer works, Lebe nsansichten des Katers 
Murr, appeared in 1821-22. It was not 
completed. In addition to liis literary work, 
he composed the music to Fouqu<i's opera of 


Celebrated people commonly have manv ill 
tliiiigsTsaid of them, wlietlier well-fouii(lc(l or 
not. And no exception was made in the case 
of tlnit adniirahlc painter Halvator Rosa, wliosii 
living ])ictures cannot fail to impart a keen and 
characteristic delight to those wlio look uj)on 
them. At the time tliat Salvator's fame was 
ringing thnmgh Najiles, Kome, and Tuscany — 
nay, tlirough all Itidy — and painters who were 
desirous of gaining applause were striving to 
imitate his peculiar and unique stjde, his en- 
vious and malicious rivals were laboring to 
spread abroad ull sorts of evil reports intended 
to sully witli ugly black stains the glorious 
sjdendor of his artistic fame. Tliey affirmed 
that h»^ had at a former j>eriod of his life be- 
lojiged to a company of ])anditti, and that it 
was to liis experiences during this lawless time 
that he owed all the wild, fierce, fantastically 
attired jigures which he introduced into liis 
pictures, just as the gloomy fearful wilderness 
of his landscape; — the iselve seloacjge (savage 
woods) — to use Dante's expression, were faith- 
ful representations of the haunts where they 
lay liidden. 

What was worse still, they openly charged 
liim with having been c<mcerned in tlie atro- 
cious and bloody revolt which liad been set on 
foot by the notorious Masaniello in Naples. 


They even described the share lie hud taken in 
it, down to the minutest details. I do not be- 
lieve that Salvator had any share in Masa- 
niello's bloody deeds ; on the contrary, I think 
it was the horrors of that fearful time which 
drove liini from Naples to Rome, where he ar- 
rived a pool", jioverty-stricken fugitive, just at 
the time that Masaniello fell. 

Not over well dressed, and watli a scanty 
purse containing not more than a few bi-ight 
seijuins in his pocket, he crept through the 
gate just after nightfall. Somehow or other — • 
he didn't exactly know how — he wandered as 
far as the Piazza Navona. In better times he 
had once lived there in a large house near the 
Pamfili Palace. With an ill-tempered growl, 
he gazed up at the large plate-glass windows 
glistening and glimmering in the moonlight. 
" Hm ! " he exclaimed, '' it'll cost me dozens 
of yards of colored canvas before I can open 
my studio up there again." Put all at once 
lie felt as if paralyzed in every limb, and at 
the same moment more weak and feeble than 
he had ever felt in his life before. ''But shall 
I," he murmured between his teeth as he sank 
down upon the stone steps leading up to the 
house-door, "shall I really be able to finish 
canvas enough in the way the fools want it 
done ? Hm ! I have a notion that that will bo 
the end of it ! " 

A cold, cutting night wind blew down the 
street. Salvator recognized the necessity of 
seeking a shelter. Kising with difficulty, lie 
staggered on into the Corso, and then turned 
into the Via Pergognona. At length he 
stopped before a little house with only a 
couple of windows, inhabited by a poor widow 
and her two daughters. Tliis woman bad 
taken him in for little pay the first time ho 
came to Pome, an unknown stranger noticed 
of nobody : and so In; hoped again to find a 
lodging with her, such as would be best suited 
to the sad condition in which lie then was. 


He knocked confidently at tho door, and 
several times called out his name aloud. At 
last he heard the old woman slowly and reluc- 
tantly waken in<:j up out of her sleep. She 
slmflled to the window in her sli[)p('rs, and be- 
gan to rain down a shower of abuse n{)un tho 
knavo who was come to worry her in this way 
in the middle of the night ; her house was not 
a wine-shop, etc. Then there ensued a good 
deal ui cross-(pu'stioniiig befox'o slie recognized 
her former lodger's voice ; but on Salvator's 
complaining that he had fled from Naples and 
was unable to find a shelter in Kome, the old 
dame cried, " By all the blessed saints of 
Heaven ! Is that you, Signor Salvator ? Well 
now, your little room up above, that looks on to 
the court, is still standing empty, and the old fig- 
tree has pushed its branches right through the 
window and into the room, so that you can sit 
and work like as if you was in a beautiful cool 
arbor. Ay, and how pleased my girls will be 
that you have come back again, Signor Salva- 
tor. But d'ye know, my Margarita's grown a 
big girl and fine-looking ? You won't give 
her any more rides on your knee now. And — 
your little pussy, just fanc}^, three months ago 
she choked herself with a fish-bone. Ah well, 
we all shall come to the grave at last. But, 
d'ye know, my fat neighbor, whonryou so often 
laughed at and so often painted in such funny 
ways — d'ye know, she did marry that young 
fellow, Signor Luigi, after all. Ah, well ! 
marriages and magistrates are made in heaven, 
they s;iy." 

"But," cried Salvator, interrupting the old 
woman, " but, Signora Caterina, I entreat you 
by the blessed saints, do, pray, let me in, and 
then tell me all about your fig-tree and your 
daughters, j'our cat and your fat neighbor — I 
am perishing of weariness and cold." 

" Bless me, how impatient we are," rejoined 
tlic old wonum ; *' (7ii va 2^i((>to va sano, chi 
va presto more lesto, I tell you. But you are 


tired, you are cold ; where are the keys ? quick 
with the keys ! " 

But the old woman still had to wake up her 
daughters and kindle a fire but oh ! she was 
such a long time about it — such a long, long 
time. At last she opened the door and let 
poor Salvator in ; but scarcely had he crossed 
the threshold than overcome by fatigue and 
illness, he dropped on the floor as if dead. 
Happily the widow's son, who generally lived 
at Tivoli, chanced to be at his mother's that 
night. He was at once turned out of his bed 
to make room for the sick guest, which he will- 
ingly submitted to. 

The old woman was very fond of Salvator, 
putting him, as far as his artistic powers went, 
above all the painters in the world ; and in 
everything that hu did she also took the greatest 
pleasure. She was therefore cpiite beside her- 
self to see him in this lamentable condition, 
and wanted to run off to the neighboring mon- 
astery to fetch her father confessor, that he 
might come and fight against the adverse 
j)ower of the disease with consecrated candles 
or some powerful amulet or other. On the 
other hand, her son thought it would be almost 
better to see about getting an experienced 
])hysician at once, and off he ran to the Span- 
ish Scpuire, where he knew the distinguished 
Doctor Splfndiano Accoramboni dwelt. No 
sooner did the doctor learu that the i)ainter 
Salvator Jlosa lay ill in the Via ]5i>rgogiiona 
than he at once dcclarrd himself ready to call 
early and see the patient. 

Salvator lay unconscious, si ruck down by a 
most severe attack of fever. The ol<l dame had 
hung up two or three pictures of saints above his 
lifd, and was praying fervently. The girls, 
though bathed in tears, exerted themselves from 
t inie to time to gc-t the sick man to swallow a few 
drojisof llie cooling lem(»nade which they had 
made, whilst their brother, who had taken his 
place at the head of the bed, wiped the cold 


swoat fnua his limw. And sd jii(irniM<^ 
fcniiid tlu'ii), wluMi, witli a loud croak, tlio door 
opened, and the distiiiguislu-d Doctor Spleii- 
diano Aceoranihoni entered the room. 

If Salvalor liad not been so seriously ill that 
the two girls' hearts were melted in grief, they 
would, I think — for they were in general frolic- 
some and saucy — have enjoyed a hearty laugh 
at the Doctor's extraordinary appearance in- 
stead of retiring shyly, as they did, into the 
corner, greatly alarmed. 

It will indeed be worth while to describe the 
outward appearance of the little man who pre- 
sented himself at Dame Caterina's in the Via 
Bergogna in the gray of the morning. In 
spite of all his excellent capabilities for gr(nvth. 
Doctor Splendiano Accoramboni had not been 
able to advance beyond the respectable stature 
of four feet. Moreover, in the days of his youth, 
he had been distinguished for his elegant figure, 
so that, before his head, always indeed some- 
what ill-shaped, and his big cheeks, and his 
stately double chin had put on too much fat, 
before his nose had grown bulky and spread, 
owing to over much indulgence in Spanish 
snuff, and before his little belly had assumed 
the shape of a wine-tub from too much fattening 
on macaroni, the priestly cut of garment which 
lie at that time had affected had suited him 
down to the ground. He was then in truth a 
pretty little man, and accordingly the Roman 
ladies had styled him their caro pupjxizetto 
(sweet little pet). That, however, was now a 
thing of the ])ast. A German painter, seeing 
Doctor Splendiano walking across the Spanish 
Square, said — and he was perhaps not far wrong 
— that it looked as if some strapping fellow of 
six feet or so had walked away from his own 
head which had fallen on the shoulders of a 
little marionette clown, who now had to carry it 
about as his own. This curious little figure 
■walked about in patchwork — an immense quan- 
tity of pieces of Venetian damask of a large 



flower-pattern that had been cut uji in nialcing 
a dressing-gown ; high np round his waist he 
had buckled a broad leather belt, from wliich 
an excessively long rapier hung ; whilst his 
snow-white wig was surmounted by a high 
conical cap, not unlike the obelisk in St. 
Peter's Square. Since the said wig, like a 
piece of texture all tumbled and tangled spread 
out thick and wide all over his back, it might 
very well be taken for the cocoon out of which 
the fine silkworm had crept. 

The worthy Splendiano Accoramboni stared 
through his big, bright spectacles, with his 
eyes wide open, first at his patient, then at 
Dame Caterina. Calling her aside, he croaked 
with bated breath. '■ There lies our talented 
painter Salvator l\osa, and he's lost if my 
skill doesn't save him, Dame Caterina. Pray 
tell me when he came to lodge with you ? 
Did he bring many beautiful large pictures 
with him ? " 

" Ah ! my dear Doctor," replied Dame 
Caterina, " the poor fellow only came last 
night. And as for pictures — why, I don't 
know nothing about them ; but there's a big 
box below, and Salvator begged me to take 
very good care of it, before he became senseless 
like what he now is. I daresay there's a fine 
l)icture packed in it, as he jininted in Naples." 

What Dame Caterina said was, lioweviT, a 
falsehood ; but we shall soon see that she had 
good reasons for imposing upon the Doctor in 
til is way. 

"Good! Very good!" said the Doctor, 
simpering and str()king his beard; then, with 
as much sohannity as his long rapier, which 
kept catching in all Ihe chairs and tables ho 
(•ame near, would allow, he a])pr(>'d the sick 
man and felt his jmlse, snorting and wheezing, 
so that it had a most curious effect in the midst 
of the reverential silence which had fallen 
upon all the rest. Then ]w ran over in (ireek 
and Latin llie names of a hundred and twenty 


diseases that Salvator had not, then ahnnst as 
many wliich ho might liavo had, and cdnr-hidod 
])y saying tliat on the spur of the moment he 
didn't recolh'ct tlie name of liis disease, hut 
tliat he Would witliin a short time find a 
suitable one for it, and along therewith, the 
projier remedies as well. Tlien lie took his 
departure with the same solemn ity with whieh 
he had entered, leaving them all full of trouble 
and anxic^t}'. 

At the bottom of the steps the Doctor re- 
quested to see Salvator's box. Dame Caterina 
showed him one — in which were two or three 
of her deceased husband's cloaks now laid 
aside,' and some old worn-out shoes. The 
Doctor smilingly tai)ped th,e box on this side 
and on tliiit, and remarked in a tone of satisfac- 
tion. '' We sludl see ! we shall see ! " 

Some hours later he returned with a very 
beautiful name for his ])atient's disease, and 
brought with him some big bottles of an evil- 
smelling [lotion, which he directed to be given 
to the patient constantly. This was a work 
of no little trouble, for Salvator showed the 
greatest aversion for — utter loathing of — the 
stuff, which looked, and smelt, and tasted, as if 
it had been concocted irom Acheron itself. 

Whether it was that the disease, since it had 
now received a name, and in consequence re- 
ally signified something, had only just begun 
to put forth its viruli;nce, or whether it was 
that Splendiano's ])otion made too much of a 
disturbance insid(! the patient — it is at any 
rate certain that the poor painter grew weaker 
and weaker from day to day, from hour to 
hour. And notwithstanding Doctor Splendiano 
Accoramboni's assurance that, after the vital 
process had reached a state of perfect 
equilibrium, he woubl give it a new start, like 
the pendulum of a clock, they were all very 
doubtful as to Salvator's recovery, and thought 
that the Doctor had j)erha2)s already given the 
])endulum such a violent start that the mc^ 
chauism was quite impaired. 


jSTow it happened one clay that when 
tSalvator seemed scarcely ahle to move a finger 
lie was suddenly seized with the paroxysm of 
fever; in a momentary accession of fictitious 
strength he leajjt out of hed, seized the full 
medicine-bottles, and hurled tliem fiercely out 
of the window. Just at this moment Doctor 
Splendiano Accoranibani was entering the 
house, when two or three bottles came hang 
upon his head, smashing all to pieces, wliilst 
the brown liquid ran in streams all down his 
wig and face and ruff. Hastily rushing into 
the house, he screamed like a madman. 

" Signor Salvator has gone out of his mind, 
he's become insane ; no skill can save him 
now, he'll be dead in ten minutes. Give me 
the picture. Dame Caterina, give me the 
picture — it's mine, the scanty reward of all 
my trouble. Give me the picture, T say." 

But when dame Caterina opened the box, 
and Doctor Splendiano saw nothing but the oM 
cloaks and torn shoes, his eyes spun round in 
his head like a pair of fire-wheels ; he gnashed 
his teeth ; he stamped ; he consigned poor !Sal- 
vator, the widow, and all the family to the 
devil; then he rushed out of the house like an 
arrow from a bow, or as if he liad been shot 
from a cannon. 

After the violence of the jiaroxysm had spent 
itself, Salvator again rel:i2)sed into a death-like 
condition. Dame Caterina was fully persuaded 
that his end was really come, and away she 
sped as fast as slie could to the monastery, to 
fetch Father Boniface, that he might come and 
administer the saeranient to the dying man. 
Father lioniface came and looked at the sick 
man ; lie said he was well accpiainted with the 
j)eculiar signs which approaching death is wont 
to stamp upon the human countenance, but 
that for the present there were no indications 
of them on the face of the insensible Salvator. 
Something might still be done, and he would 
procure help nt once, only Doctor Splendiano 


Accoramboni, witli his (xreek names and infernal 
medicines, was not to be allowed to cross the 
threshold again. The good Father set out at 
omre, and we shall see later that he kept his 
word about sending the j)r<)inised help. 

Salvator recovered consciousness again ; ho 
fancied he was lying in a beautiful ilowcr- 
sceiitcd arbor, fur green boughs and leaves were 
interlacing above his lu^ad. He felt a salutary 
warmth glowing in his veins, but it seemed to 
liim as if, somehow, his left arm was bound 

"Where am I ?" he asked in a faint voice. 
Then a handsome young man, who had stood 
at his bedside, but whom he had not noticed 
until just now, threw liimself upon liis knees, 
and grasping Salvator's right hand, kissed it 
and bathed it with tears, as he cried again and 
again. " Oh ! my dear sir ! my noble master ! 
now it's all right ; you are saved, you'll get 

"But (h) tell me" — began .Salviitr)r, when 
tlie young man bciggcd him not to exert himself, 
for h(! was too weak to talk; he would tell him 
all that had happened. 

'• \\>n see, my esteenu'd and excellent sir," 
began the young man, "you see you were very 
ill when you came from Na])les, but your con- 
dition was not, I warrant, by any means so 
dangerous but that a few simple remedies would 
soon have set you, with your strong constitu- 
tion, on your legs again, liad you not through 
Carlos's well-intentioned blunder in running off 
for tlie nearest physician fallen into the hands 
of the redoubtable J'yramid Doctor, who was 
making all preparations for bringing you to 
your grave. 

" What do you say?" exclaimed Salvator, 
laugliing heartily, notwithstanding th«( feeble 
state he was in. "What do you say? — the 
I'yramid Doctor? Ay, ay, although I was very 
ill, I saw that the litth; knave in damask patch- 
Work, who condemned me to drink his horrid, 


loathsome devil's brew, wore on his head the 
obelisk from St. Peter's Square — and so that's 
why 3^ou call him the Pyramid Doctor ? " 

" Why, good heavens ! " said the young man, 
likewise laughing, "Doctor Splendiano Ac- 
coramboni must have come to see you in 
his ominous conical nightcap; and, do you 
know, you may see it flashing every morning 
from his window in the Sjianish Square like a 
portentous meteor. But it's not by any means 
owing to this cap that he's called tlie Pyramid 
Doctor ; for that there's quite another reason. 
Doctor Splendiano is a great lover of pictures, 
and possesses in truth quite a choice collection, 
which he has gained by a practice of a peculiar 
nature. Witli eager cunjiing he lies in wait for 
painters and their illnesses. More especially 
he loves to get foreign artists into his toils ; let 
them but eat an ounce or two of macaroni too 
much, or drink a glass, more Syracuse, than is 
altogether good for them, lie will afflict them 
with iirst one and then another disease, desig- 
nating it by a formidable name, and proceeding 
at once to cure them of it. He generally bar- 
gains for a picture as the price of his attend- 
ance ; and as it is ouly specially obstinate con- 
stitutions which are able to stand his powerful 
remedies, it generally happens that he gets his 
picture out of the chattels left by the poor 
foreigner, who meanwhile has been carried to 
tlie Pyramid of Cestius, and buried there. It 
need liardly be said that Signer Splendiano 
always i)icks out the best of the pictures the 
painter lias finished, and also does not forget to 
bid the men to take several otli(>rs along with 
it. 'J'he cemetery near the Pyramid of ('estius 
is Doctor Splendiano Accorainboni's corn-iield, 
whitOi he diligently cultivates, and for that 
reason lie is called the Pyramid Doctor. Damo 
Caterina had taken great pains, of course with 
the best intentions, to make the Doctor believe 
that you had bi-ought a fine picture with you ; 
you may imagine therefore witli what eagerness 


he concoctod lii.s potions for you. It was a for- 
tunate thing that in tlio paroxysm of fever you 
threw the Doctor's bottle at liis liead ; it was 
also a fortunate thing that he left you in anger, 
and no less fortunate was it that Dame (!atcrina, 
who believed you were in the agonies of death, 
fetched Fatlier Jioniface to conu' and aolniinister 
to you the sacrament. Father P.onifare under- 
stands something of the art of healing; he 
formed a correct diagnosis of your condition 
and fetched me. I hastened here, ojiened a vein 
in your left arm, and you were saved. Then 
we brouglit you up into this co(d airy room that 
you formerly occupied. Look, there's the easel 
which you left behind you ; yonder are a few 
sketches which ])amo Caterina has treasured up 
as if they were relics. The virulence of your 
disease is subdued ; simple remedies, such as 
Father Boniface can prepare, are all you want, 
except good nursing, to bring back your strength 
again. And now permit me once more to kiss 
this hand — this creative hand that charms from 
Nature her deepest secrets and clothes them in 
living form. T'ermit poor Antonio Scacciati to 
pour out all tht^ gratitude and immeasurable J03' 
of his heart that Heaven has granted him to 
save the life of our great and noble painter, 
Salvator Kosa." — iSignor Forndca^ iu The 
iSerapion Brethren. 



HOFLAND, Barbara (Wreaks), an 
English author, born in 1770 ; died in 
1844. She married, in 1796, a Mr. Hoole, 
who died two years afterwards. To sup- 
port herself and her child, she opened a 
school, and began literary work. In 1805 
she published a volume of poems. Her 
work was successful, and she continued it 
after her marriage with the painter, Thomas 
Christopher Holland, in 1808. She was 
the author of about seventy works, many 
of which had a wide circulation. Among 
them are The Daughter-{n-Lau\ Emily^ 
The Son of a G-enius, Beatrice^ Says She to 
her Neiyhhor^ What ? The Unloved One, 
The Czarina^ The Merchant's Widow, EUen, 
the Teacher, Adelaide, Humility, Fortitude, 
Decision, Inteyrity, The Cleryyman'' s Widow, 
Daniel Dennison, Self Denial, Tales of the 
Priory, and Tales of the Manor. 
IjAuoks of love. 

Left in a great inossure to liis own manago- 
ment Ludovico now worked incessantly and 
when he had finished a litthi parcel of ])ic- 
tures, took them out into tlie neighboring vil- 
lages of this populous district for sale ; a circum- 
stance of grciit utility to him as the exercise ho 
was thus ohliged to take was of the greatest use to 
liis health. 

Among other objects of Lndovico's com]>as- 
sioii was an old woman who sold matches, mo])- 
thrums, an<l little pa[)er bags for the maids to 
jiut feathers in. lie in(piircd of this poor woman 
what she gave for tluHast ; to which she an- 
swered by coni])laining that slu; had oidy two 
left, and could get no more. 

Ludovico, after examining one, bought it of 
her: as lie did so, these words jiassed his mind, 
''Silver and gold have 1 none, but .such as I 
have give I unto thee ; " liis eyes filled with 
tears as Ik^ looked at tho withered, face and 



gray locks of tlio ])(M)r old woman ; aixl as it 
over was his custom to run away wlieii liis 
ft'cliiijfs were awakened, lie scampered out of 
sij;lit Iteforo tlie old woman bad time to per- 
ceive tliat lie had given her llirfcjicncc fur her 
twopenny hag. 

'' Now the hlessing of God go witli Ihce, my 
bonny bairn," said the ohl wnman ; hn- she 
was convinced l)y the look of the boy that it 
was done intentionally. 

*'No need to bless lu! for an odd penny," 
said a woman who was standing by: " wliy, 
Goody, that's the boy as sells the jdctures all 
about : he's bought your bag on purpose for a 
})attem, and by next market-day he'll bo sell- 
ing a whole mess of 'em ; ye'll sec^ that." 

"Well, well, wo mun all live," said the poor 

On tlie next market-day Ludovico M'as seen 
as usual silently standing in J>riggate with his 
pictures ; and something folded in a luiwspaper 
under his arm : lie had now been regularly 
working for several months, and his sale was 
of course not so rapid as at first, especially as 
he had raised his prices. Just as he had 
finished bargaining with a cobbler who wished 
for a painting to ornament his stall, he cast 
his eye upon the old woman with her match- 
basket ; and springing gladly forward, he 
opened his little parcel and produced nine neat 
paper bags, very prettily made, which ho silent- 
ly put into her hand. 

'■'■ An what mun I gie thee for these, my lad ? 
they be jist what I wanted." 

" Nothing, nothing at all, you are welcome,'' 
said Ludovico, as ho spoke trying to escape the 
poor woman's surfjrise and thanks, by edging 
his way backward into the crowd. At this 
moment a loud altercation was taking place be- 
tween two corn-factors, one of whom, in an 
angry voice, was repeating the words— 

"'Tis false, I tell you, false altogether; [ 
paid you for the second load along with the 

other, as my receipt will show." 



'' I shall believe tlie receipt when I see it, 
but not till then ; for the twenty-eight pounds 
stands in my book uncrossed ; whereas the 
fifty pounds is jist as it ought to be made, re- 
ceived all in order." 

*' More shame for you, not settling your 
books ; but I'll convince you ; I'll prove to 
you," said the first, in a very angry tone, 
taking out his pocket-book, and turning over 
the leaves with great agitation. At this very 
moment poor Ludovico had the ill luck to jostle 
the angry man in his retreat, who, in the mo- 
ment of vexation, gave him such a violent blow 
that many of the papoi-s in his pocket-book fell 
out: the book was full of bills, for he was go- 
ing to make a large ])ayment, and the con- 
sciousness of his folly instantly calmed his anger 
he gathered his })apers up as well as he could, 
looking in vain for the receipt, which he de- 
clared he possessed, and proposed ste})ping into 
the liotel to examine more minutely the con- 
tents of the disarranged poi;ket-book ; saying at 
the same time, " I believe 1 have lost nothing ; 
but that is moi'c by good luck than good look- 
ing after." 

This was more than Ludovico could say, 
for he had not only got a hard blow, but his 
2)ictures were all thrown down on the dirty 
stones, whi(;h were wet from a recent shower, 
and the labors of a week were lost in a mc)- 
ment. The poor woman would have wiped 
them for him, but Ludovico, knowing all was 
lost, hastily clapjied them together, and was 
departing, when he perceived something of 
])aper sticking to his foot, which he had no 
doubt liad come from the angry man's pocket- 
book ; an idea which was instantly conlinned by 
j)erceiving that it was a Luds bank-note for 
iive guineas. 

Ludovico had that morning counte(l his store, 
which with the stock lie hoped to dispose of 
that day amounted to somctliing more than 
three pounds. ]le looked wistfully at the bill — • 



"Five pounds five, hikI tliroo ixiuiids seven/' 
said lie inwardly " niakc^ ciglit pounds Uni. Oli, 
tlial this were mine ! " 

'' Thine, lioncy ! it is tliine to In; sure, and 
much good may lliee liave of it," said the olil 

*' Nay, Goody, it is the gentleman's tliat 
struck me." 

'• INfore brute lie ! Imt I doesn't think it be 
liis'n, for he said lie had gf>t nil that Ixdongcd 
to him, and many a man as rich as he has gone 
over these stones to-day. Take it, child, take 
it; 'tis a God-send to thee for helping a poor 
old woman." 

This was indeed persuasive logic, and for a 
moment Lud(nico yielded to it, but the next 
convinced him that he ought at least to inquire 
for the gentleman who had owned the pocket- 
book, persuading himself that as he seemed a 
rich man, even if he had lost the bill, he might 
perhaps give it liim ; lie therefore hastened 
after him to the hotel, but having no name or 
description to give of the gentleman sufTiciently 
clear, he could gain no attention, and was at 
length turned out by the waiter. As he was 
making his way to the prison in order at last 
to make his mother ac<]uainted with the whole 
affair, he saw the very person he wanted riding 
past him in full galloj) ; Ludovico called out to 
him to stop, but the gentleman, remembering 
him only by the blow he had given him, did 
not stop; he threw a shilling on the pavement 
to the boy, and pursued his course as fast as a 
good horse could carry him. 

Several people who witnessed this transac- 
tion asked Ludovico why he wanted the person 
to stop ; to which he replied by eagerly asking 
his name : they were all ignorant, and united 
in saying they did not think he was a person 
who regularly frequented their market, as they 
had never seen him before. — The Son of a 

14 '°9 


HOGG, James, a Scottish poet and 
prose-NViiter, known as " The Ettrick Shep- 
herd," bora in 1772; died in 1835. He 
sprang from a family of sheplierds, and his 
youth and early manhood were passed in 
the same occupation. He never received 
any school education, but by the time he 
iuid reached the age of twenty-four he had 
acquired some repute as a local poet. 
From the age of eighteen to twenty-seven 
he was in the employ of a Scottish laird, 
who allowed him free access to his consid- 
erable library, and he thus managed to 
repair the defects of his early education. 
In 1801 he went to Edinburgh, in order 
to sell a few sheep, and he then put forth 
a small volume of poems under the title of 
Scottish Pastorals, Poems, and Songs. A 
little later Sir Walter Scott, who was col- 
lecting materials for his Minstrelsy of the 
Scottish Borders, became acquainted with 
Hogg, who furnished him with a number 
of ballads ; and in 1803 put forth another 
volume of poems, The Mountain Bard. 
After several unsuccessful attempts at 
farming, Hogg, in 1810, went to Edin- 
burgh to try a literary career. He con- 
tributed to Blackwood' s Magazine, and fig- 
ures largely as an interlocutor in Wilson's 
Noctes Amhrosianai. In 1813 he published 
The Queen's Wake, his most popular poem. 
In 1831 he went to London to superintend 
the i)ublication of a collection of his works, 
which extended to eleven small volumes, 
wliich were in 1800 put forth in two vol- 
umes. A i)ension of £ 100 was awarded 
to Ids wife from tlie Literary Fund, which 
she enjoyed for more than thiity ycHrs. 
His " Honny Kilmeny," a fairy story, 
which f(.rnis" a i)art of Thr Queen's Wake, 


stands high among works of its class, and 
some of his ballads and songs j)ossess de- 
cided merit. His prose works are of very 
unequal merit, none of them ranking very 
high. Among them are Jacohite lielics^ 
The Three Perils of Man, The Three Perils 
of Woman The Altrive Tales, and Anecdotes 
of Sir Walter Scott. 


I^)onny Kilmeny gaed \\\) tlie gleii ; 

Kut it was na to meet iHiiieira's men, 

Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 

For Kihneny was pure as pure could be. 

It was only to hear the yorlin sing, 

And pu' the cress-tiower round tlie spring — 

The scarlet hypp and tlio ]iindl>errye, 

And the nut that hung from the hazh>treo; 

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 

J)Ut lang may her niinny look o'er tlie wa', 

And lang may she seek the green-wood shaw; 

Lang the laird uf Duneira blame. 

And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame. 

When many a day had come and fled. 
When grief grew calm, and ho])e was dead. 
When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, 
When the bedesman had j)rayed, and the dead- 
bell rung, 
Late, late in a gloamin', when all was still. 
When the fringe was red on the westlin hill, 
The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane. 
The reek o' the cot Imng over the plain — • 
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane— 
When the ingle lowed with an eyrie leme — 
Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame ! 

"Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you l)een ? 
Lang hae we sought baith holt and den — 
By lin, by ford, and grcon-wood tree ; 
Yet you are halesonu» and fair to see. 
Where got you that joup o' the lily sheen ? 
That bonny snood of th(! birk sae green ? 
And those roses, the fairest that ever were seen ? 
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?" 


Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace ; 
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; 
As still was her look, and as still was her e'e 
As the stillness that lay on the eraerant lea, 
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. 
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, 
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not de- 
clare ; 
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, 
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never 

blew ; 
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung, 
And the airs of heaven played round her tongue, 
When she spake of the lovely forms she had 

And a land where sin had never been ; 
A land of love and a land of liglit, 
Withouten sun, or moon, or night ; 
Where the river swa'd a living stream, 
And tlie light a pure celestial beam: 
Tlie land of vision it would seem, 
A still, an everlasting dream. 

In that green wone Kilmeny lay, 
Her bosom haj)i)ed wi' tlie flowerets gay; 
But tlie air was soft, and the silence deep. 
And bonny KilnuMiy fell sound asleep ; 
She kenned nae mair, nor opened her e'e, 
Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye. 
She wakened on a couch of the silk sae slim. 
All striped with the bars of the rainbow's ritn ; 
And lovely beings around were rife. 
Who erst had travelled mortal life; 
And aye they smiled and 'gan to speir: 
" What spirit has brought this mortal here? 
Oh, bonny Kilmeny ! free frae stain, 
If ever you seek the world again — 
That world of sin, of sorrow, and fear — 
Ob, tell of the joys that are waiting here ; 
And tell of tlie joys you shall shortly see ; 
Of the times that are now, and the times that 
slii.ll be." . . . 

^\ hen a month and a day had come and gane, 


Kilmony souj^ht tlie green-wood weno ; 
Tliere liiid her down on the leaves sae green, 
And Kihneny on earth was never mair seen. 
]iut oh ! the words that fell from her mouth 
Were words of wonder and words of truth ! 
But all the laud were in fear and dread, 
For they kenned na whether she was living or 

It wasna hame, and she couldna remain ; 
She left this world of sorrow and pain, 
And returnetl to the Land of Thought again. 

A boy's song. 
Where the pools are bright and deep, 
Where the gray trout lies asleep, 
Up the river and o'er the lee, 
That's the way for Billy and mo. 

Where the blackbird sings the latest, 
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, 
Where the nestlings cliirj) and flee, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, 
Where the hay lies thick and greenest, 
There to trace the homeward bee, 
That's the way for J>illy and me. 

Where the hazle-bank is sweetest. 
Where the shadow falls the deejjcst, 
Where the clustering nuts fall free, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Why the boys should drive away 
Little maidens from their play, 
Or love to banter and fight so well, 
That's the thing I never could tell. 

But this I know, I love to play, 
Through the meadow, among the hay; 
Up the water and over the lea. 
That's the way for IMWy and me. 


Oh, wliat will a' the lads do 
When Maggy gangs away ? 


Oh, what will a' the lads do 
When Maggy gangs away ; 

There's no a heart in a' the glen 
That disna dread the day ; 

Oh, what will a' the lads do. 
When Maggy gangs away ? 

Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't — 

A waeful wight is he ; 
Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't 

An' laid him down to dee ; 
An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk, 

An' learnin' fast to pray ; 
And oh, what will the lads do 

When IMaggy gangs away ? 

The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw 

Has drunk her health in wine ; 
The priest has said — in conlidence — 

The lassie was divine ; 
And that is nuiir in maiden's j)raise 

Than ony ])rit'st should say ; 
But oh, what will the lads do 

When Maggy gangs away ? 

The wailing in our green glen 

That day will (juaver high; 
'Twill draw the red-breast frae the wood 

The laverock frae the sky ; 
The fairies frae their beds o' dew 

AVill rise an' join the lay ; 
An' hey ! what a day will be 

When Maggy gangs away ! 


Bird of the wilderness, 

Blithesoine and cuinberless 
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland ami lea ! 

Emblem of haj)j)iness, 

l'>lesse<l is thy dwelling-]ilace — 
Oh, to abide in th(> desert with thee ! 

Wild is thy lay and loud 

1^'ar in the downy cloud. 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 

Where, o!i thy tiewy wing, 

Wliere art thou journeying? 


Thy lay is in licavcii thy lovo is on eurtli. 
O'er fell and luouiitaiii sheen, 
O'er moor and uiouiitain green, 

O'er tlie red streamer tliut heralds tli<; ilay, 
Over tho cloudlet dim, 
Over the rainbow's rim, 

Musical cherub, soar, sinj^ing away : 

Then, when the gleaming comes, 
Low in tho heatlier blooms, 

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! 
Emblem of hajtpiness. 
Blessed is thy dwelling-place — 

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 


HOLBACH, Paul Henri Thyky (or 

Dietrich d') a French philosoj^hical 
writer, born in 1723 ; died in 1789. He was 
born at Heidelsheim, Baden, but in early 
life was taken to his father to Paris, where 
he afterwards resided. He spent much of 
the large fortune inlierited from his father 
in entertaining the free-thinkers of his 
day, for whom his house became a rendez- 
vous. He was a professed enemy to 
Cliristianity, and an avowed materialist. 
His first publications were translations of 
German scientific works. In 1759 he ed- 
ited the works of Boulanger, under whose 
name he pul)lished, in 1767 Lc Christiau- 
isme de voile, on Exameii des PrineipeH et des 
ijffets de la .Relir/lon revelec, and L' Esprit 
du Clerge, ou le Christ ianistne primitif 
vewje des Entreprises et des Exces de nos 
Pretres modernes. Tlie latter work was 
sentenced to be burned by the public exe- 
cutioner. In 1770, under the name of 
'' Mirabaud," he published Le Systeme de 
la Nature^ ou des Lois da 3Ionde physique 
et moral, a work, the morality of whicli 
s] locked Voltaire, and caused (loetlie to 
declare that he recoiled from it in abhoi- 
rence. Both Voltaire and Frculerick the 
Great wrote in answer to it. Other works 
of Holbach are Le Bon Sens, ou Idees nat- 
urelles opposees aux Id^es siirnaturelleH 
(177!2), Le System xoelal, ou les .Prinripc.^ 
ntdnrels de la jMonile et de la P<)liti<pie 
(1773), and L^a Morale nnioersrlle, ou. les 
JJeeoirs de VHomme fon.d(^s sar la Dfafure 


1 f man was to jud}?o of causes by tlieir offo-cts, 
tlicrc would >>(> no small caTisps in the universe. 



In a nature wlicre ('verythiii<^ is connected; 
where everytliiiig acts and reacts, moves and 
chanj^es, composes and decomposes, forms 
and destroys, tliere is not an atom wliich 
does not play an important and necessary part ; 
there is not an imperceptible particle, however 
minute, which, jdaced in convenient circum- 
stances, does not operate the most prodigious 
effects. If man was in a capacity to follow 
the eternal chain, to pursue the concatenated 
links that coTinect with their causes all the 
effects he witnesses, without losing sight of 
any one of its rings, if he could unravel the 
ends of those insensible threads that give im- 
pulse" to the thoughts, decision to the will, 
direction to the passions of those men who are 
called mighty according to their actions; he 
would find that they are true atoms whicli nature 
employs to move the moral world ; that it is 
the unexpected but necessary junction of these 
indiscernible particles of matter, it is their 
aggregation, their combination, their propor- 
tion, tlieir fermentation, which, modifying the 
individual by degrees, in despite of himself, 
and frequently without his own knowledge, 
make him think, will, an<l act in a determinate 
and necessary mode. If the will and the 
actions of this individual have an influence 
over a great number of other men, here is the 
moral wui'Id in a state tf great combustion. 
Too mucli acrimony in the bile of a fanatic, 
blood too much inflamed in the lieart of a con- 
queror, a painful indigestion in the stomach of 
a monarch, a whim that passes in the mind of 
a woman, are sometimes causes sufficient to 
bring on war, to send millions of men to the 
slaugliter, to root out an liutire people, to over- 
throw walls, to reduce cities into ashes, to 
plungi^ nations into slavery, to put a whole 
people into mourniTig, to lireeil famine in a land, 
to engiMider pestilence, to propagate calamity, 
to extend misery, to spread desolation far and 
wide upon the surface of our globe, through a 
long series of ages. — System of Nature. 



HOLBERG, LudwigVon, a Scandina- 
vian dramatist, born in 1684 ;died in 1754. 
He was educated at the College of Bergen, 
and at the University of Copenhagen, 
where he received his degree in 1704. He 
then applied himself to the study of mod- 
ern languages, supporting himself by 
teaching. In 1706 he travelled in Hol- 
land. A severe illness compelled him to 
return to Norway, and he established him- 
self at Christianssand as a teacher of lan- 

, guages. Having saved a little money, he 

I went to Oxford and spent several months 
in study, gaining his livelihood by giving 
lessons on the violin and the flute. On his 

7 return to Copenhagen he began to lecture 
at tlie University, but his lectures were 
not well attended, and in 1709 he accom- 
panied a young man of fortune on his 
travels in Holland. Again in Copenhagen 
he resumed teaching, and wrote, but did 
not print, his first work, a Universal Ilis^ 
tori/. The king, Frederick IV., presented 
him with the Kosenkrantz grant of 100 
rix-dollars for four years. He then visited, 
chiefly on foot, most of the countries of 
Europe, and returned to Denmark in 1716. 
Two years afterwards he published an Itu 
troduction to Natural and Popular Lau\ 
and was appointed Professor of Metaphys- 

' ics in the University of Copenhagen. lu 
1820 he was given the more lucrative chair 
of ICloquence. Under the pseudonym of 
''llaiis Mikkelsen," he had published in 
1710 the serio-comic epic of Peder PaarSy 
a satire on contemporary manners. 

With the opening of the Danish theatre 
in 1721, Holberg determined to create a 
tastu for Danish comedy. Until this time 


all plays acted in Denmark •woio written 
in eitlier French or German. The Ih-st of 
his oi;i<^in;U pieces performed av;is Den 
Politis/ce KandHtoher (^The Political Tin- 
%mith) wliich liad an extraordinary success. 
Before the close of 1722, he jiroduced four 
more successful plays, Den Voyehindcde, 
Jean de France^ Jeppe of the Mountain, 
and Gert the Weatphalian. Among his 
comedies, written in 1723, are Barsehtuen, 
Jakob von Thyhoe, Den Bundedose, Don 
Ranudo^ and Melampe. His most famous 
cc»mcdy of 1724: was IL'urik and Dernille. 
He continued his dramatic lahors until 
1728. In 1731 he collected his comedies. 
His later works were liistorical, pliilosoph- 
ical, and statistical. Among them are a 
Dcs-cription of Denmark and Norwat/ 
(1729), Description of Bergen (1737), 
Universal Church Jlisfor// (1738), Stories 
of Heroes and Heroines (173'J-45), History 
of the Jews (1742), Moral Reflections 
(1744), Moral Fables (1751), and live vol- 
umes of Episth'S. His only poem published 
in these years was Tlie Subterranean Voy- 
aye of Nicholas Klini (1741), published lirst 
in IjaJiUj and afterwards translated into 
Danish. To Holberg Danisli liteiature 
owes its existence, llis genius created it. 
Bef(jre liis time it was said that ''a man 
wrote Laiin to his friends, talked Fieiich 
to the ladies, called Ids dogs in (lermaii, 
and used Danish only to swear at liis 

The selection given is from The Political 
Tinsmith. Tills manthiidcs that the govern- 
ment is badly administered, and that he 
can set it right. He and his friemls liold 
political meetings, wliile liis business goes 



to rack and ruin. He is in danger of ar- 
rest, when some one proposes to cure him 
by letting him try his hand at government. 
The members of tlie Council tell him that 
he has been chosen Burgomaster of Ham- 
burg ; their wives call on his. All sorts 
of applicants for justice appear ; sailors 
with bludgeons threaten him ; two opposed 
counsel appeal to him, and convince him 
that both are right. Driven to the verge 
of lunacy, he begs his apprentice to take 
the Burgoraastership off his hands, and 
permit him to be only Herman the Tin- 


[Geske, wife of Herman, the tinsmith, Henbich, 
the appreutice.] 

Geske. — Henricli ! 

Ilenrlch. — Ay ! 

Oes. — Hoinrich, from this time you must 
not speak in that way ; don't you kuow what 
has happened to us ? 

Hen. — No ; I never heard. 

Ges. — ^ly husband is become Burgomaster. 

Hen. — Of where ? 

Ges. — Of where ? — wliy of Hamburg! 

Hen. — The deuce, is he ! Tliat was indeed 
the devil of a tinsmith ! 

Herman. — Heinrich, speak witli more dis- 
crottion ; you must know that you are now the 
lackey of a great man. 

Hcn.—\i\\A\Ki\-\ am I raised so high? 

Her. — You may rise yet higlier. You may 
in time be tlie servant of a gentleman of j)rop- 
crty. Only be silent. You may some day 
have to drive, lackey, until [ can get a servant. 
Ife can wear my brown coat, dear heart! till 
we can g('t his livery r<!ady. 

Ges. — lint 1 am afraid it will be too long 
for him. 

Her. — Yes, to bo sure it will bo too long; 



but oae iiiiist Iit-lp oneself at a pinch as one 

Hen. — It will roach down to my heels ! I 
shall look like a .lewish High I'riest. 

Her. — Listen, llenrich ! 

Hen. — Yes, master. 

Her. — Fellow, don't give me such titles any 
more ! When I call you, you must answer, 
Sir ! and when anybody comes to inquire for 
me, you must say, '* ]\[r. Burgomaster von 
Bremoiifeld is at home ! " 

Hen. — Must I say so, sir, whether you are 
at home or not ? 

Her. — What nonsense ! When I am not at 
home 3'^ou must sa}'^, " Mr. jiurgoniaster von 
lireinenfeld is not at home ; " and when I don't 
wish to be at home, you must say, " JVlr. Burgo- 
master does not give audience to-day." [ To 
Geske.'\ Listen, dear heart ! you must directly 
have coffee ready, that you may have some- 
thing to entertain the aldermen's ladies when 
they come ; for our reputatioa will hereafter 
depend upon people being able to say, " The 
Burgomaster von Bremenfeld gave good dinners 
and his ladies good coffee." I am very mucli 
afraid, dear heart, tliat you will make some 
mistake until you are accustomed to the high 
position to which you are advanced. Now let 
Henrich run out and fetch in a tea-tray and 
some cui>s, and lot the girl run and got six- 
pennyworths of coffee, we can buy more after- 
wards. This must be a rule to you, dear 
heart! that you don't talk much until you 
have learned how properly to discourse. You 
must not be too humble, but stand upon what 
is befitting you, and labor, above everything, 
to put the old tinman-life out of your head, and 
imagine that you have been the Burgomaster's 
lady for many years. In the morning there 
must always be a tea-table ready prepared for 
callers, and in the afternoon coffee, and with 
the coffee, cards. There is a certaiij game :it 
cards called " Allumber," wliich I would give 


a hundred rix-dollars, that you and our 
daugliter, Miss Angelica, understood. You 
must therefore pay great attention when you 
see anybody playing it, that you may learn it. 
In the morning you should lie in bed till nine 
or half-past, because it is only the common 
people who in summer get up with the sun ; 
yet on Sunday's you may get up rather earlier, 
as on that day I shall drive for mj^ health's 
sake. You must have a handsome snuff-box, 
which you may have lying on the table beside 
you when you play at cards. And when any- 
body drinks your health, you must not say, 
thank you, but trh huuMe sercitenr. And 
when you yawiu you need not hold up j'our 
hand before your mouth, for that is not cus- 
tomary with line follcs. And when j'ou are in 
company, you need not be too particular, but 
set prudery somewhat aside. 

]'>ut listen, I had forgot something ; you 
should also have a ]a2i-dog, of which you nuist 
be as fond as of your own daughter, for tliat 
too is genteel. Our neighbor Arianko has a 
pretty little dog which she will lend you till we 
can get one of our own. You must give your 
dog a French name, which I will hunt out for 
3'ou, when 1 have a little time to spare. It 
must always lie in your lap, and you must kiss 
it at least half a score tinics, when coni])any is 

Gcs. — Nay, my good husband! that I can- 
not possibly do! for om^ never knows in what 
dirt a dog lias lain. One should get (Uie's 
mouth full of filth and lle:is. 

Jfer, — What nonsense ! irvniiwili be a lady 
you must have the whims of a lady, liesides, 
a dog can also furnish you with aometliing to 
talk about; for when you havti nothing else 
to say, you can relate the ])eculiarities and 
good qualities of your dog. J)o only as I tell 
y(»u, dear heart ! 1 understand the genteel 
world licttcr than you do. 'l^ike me only as 
your model, and you shall see tiiat there will 


I.ITDWK! VON noLBRRrj.— r, 

not lio fi siiitjlo fnif^incMit of the old tinsmith 
hft ulxmt inc. I shall not do as a certain 
butcher did who, wIkmi he hecanie aldcrnnin, 
after he had written on one side of a sheet of 
paper, and wanted to turn over, stuck his pen 
in his mouth as he liad been used to do with 
his butcher's knife. Now go in and give your 
directions. I liave sometliing to say to Hen- 
rich alone. — Transl. of Wm, Howitt. 


HOLCROFT, Thomas, an English 
dramatist and novelist, born at London in 
17-45; died in 1809. His father was a 
shoemaker and keeper of a livery-stable ; 
and the son was his assistant. In time he 
became trainer of a race-horse at New- 
market, was subsequently a schoolmaster, 
and finally went upon the stage. At the 
time of the French Revolution he fell un- 
der the suspicions of Government, and in 
company with Home Tooke, Thelwall, and 
others, was indicted for high treason. 
Some of the persons indicted were for- 
mally acquitted ; others, among whom was 
Holcroft, were discharged without a trial. 
He wrote some thirty plays, tlie best- 
known of which is The Road to Ruin; four 
novels, the best of which is Hugh Trevor^ 
in which he depicted the vices and dis- 
tresses whicli lie conceived to be generated 
by the existing institutions of society ; and 
a volume of autobiograhical Memoirs, 
which wero edited by William Hazlitt, 
and posthumously published in 181(5. The 
following song is from Hugh Trevor : 


Ho ! why dost thou shiver ami shake, 

(lal'fer (J- ray ? 
And why does thy nose look so blue ? 
"' Tis the weather tliat's cold, 
' Tis I'm tjfrowii very old, 
And my douhlet is not very now, 
AVell-a-(hiy ! " 

Then line thy worn douhlef: with ale, 

( Jaffer (Jray ; 
And warm thy old heart with a glass. 
"Nay, I'lit; credit V\v none, 

And my ninncy's all gone; 
Then say how may that eome to pass ? 

\Vi'll-a-<Iay ! '"' 


Hie away to tlio liouse on tho l)r.i\v, 

Gaffer Gray, 
Aiul ki)o(-k at tlic jolly priest's door. 
''The priest often jireaches, 

Against worklly riches, 
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, 

Well-a-day ! " 

The lawyer lives under the hill, 

Gaffer Gray ; 
Warmly fenced both in back and in front. 
" He will fasten liis locks, 

And will threaten the stocks, 
Should he ever more find me in want, 

Well-a-day ! " 

The squire lias fat beeves and brown ale. 

Gaffer Gvny : 
And the season will welcome j'ou there. 
" His fat beeves and his beer 

And his merry new year. 
Are all for the flush and the fair, 

Well-a-day ! " 

My keg is but low, I confess, 

Gaffer Gray ; 
What then ? While it lasts, man, we'll live. 
'*' Tlie poor man alone, 
When he hears tln^ j)oor moan. 
Of his morsel a morsel will give, 
AVell-a-day ! " 
15 ''■'' 


HOLLAND, JosiAH Gilbert, an Amer- 
ican journalist and author, born at Belcher- 
town, Mass., in 1819 ; died at New York 
in 1881. He studied medicine, was engaged 
in practice for three years, then went to 
Springfield, Mass., where for a short time 
he edited a literary periodical. He then 
went to Vicksburg, Miss., where he was 
for a year Superintendent of Public 
Schools. Returning to Springfield he be- 
came in 1849 an associate editor of the 
Republican newspaper, and soou afterwards 
one of the proprietors. In 1866 he sold 
his interest in the llepuhliean^ and, after 
travelling in Europe, became in 1870 the 
editor and part proprietor of Scrihners 
Magazine^ which was then established, and 
of which he remained the editor until his 
death. He was also a very popular lyceum 
lecturer. His principal works are : History 
of Western Maasdohusettii (iSoo), The Bay 
Path, a novel (1857), the Timothy Titcomh 
Letters (1858), Bitter Siveet, a poetical 
tale (1858), aold Foil (1859), 31iss Gil- 
herfs Career^ a novel (1860), Lessons in 
Life (1861), Letters to the Joneses (1863), 
Plain Talk on Familiar Suljects (1865), 
Life of Abraham Lincoln (1866), KatJtrina, 
a narrative poem (1867), The Marble 
Prophecy and other Poems (1872), Arthur 
Bonnicasth., a novel (1873), Garnered 
Sheaves, a collection of poems (1873), and 
2^ie Mistress of the 3Ianse, a novel, (1874.) 


(to witli me, if you please, to the next station- 
lumse, and look oft' upon that line of railroad. 
It is straight as an arrow, out run the iron 
lines, glittering in the sun — out as far as we 
can see — until, converging almost to a single 


tlircad, tlicy pierce the sky. What were those 
mils laid £(jr ? It is a road, is it ? Try your 
cart or your coach there : the axle-trees are 
too narrow, and you go bumping along upon 
the sleepers. Try a wheelbarrow : you can- 
not keep it on the rail. Now go with nie to 
the locomotive-shop. AVhat is this ? We are 
told it is a locomotive. What is a locomotive ? 
Why, it is a carriage moved by steam. ]>ut it 
is very heavy ; the wheels would sink into a 
common roati up to the axle; that locomotive 
can never run on a common-i'oad, and the man 
is a fool wlio built it; strange that men will 
waste time and money that way ! liut stop a 
moment ; Wh}', wouldn't those wheels just 
fit those rails ? ^V e measure them, and then 
we go to the track and measure its gauge. 
That solves the difiicnlty : those rails were in- 
tended for the locomotive, and the locomotive 
for the rails. They are good for nothing apart. 
The locomotive is not even safe anywhere else. 
If it should get off after it is once on, it would 
run into rocks and stum])s, and bury itself in 
saiuls or swamps beyond recovery. 

Young man, you are a locomotive ; you are 
a thing that goes by a power inside of you ; you 
are made to go. In fact, considered as .a 
machine, you are very far superior to a loco- 
motive. The maker of th»! locomotive is a man ; 
your maker is num's Maker. You are as dil- 
fiTcnt from a horse or an ox or a camel, as a 
locomotive is dilferent from a wlu'elbarrow or 
a cart or a coach. Now, do you sui)pos(^ tliat, 
the JJeing who made you — manufactured your 
machine, and ])ut into it the motive power — 
did not make a special road for you to run 
upon '! My idea of religion is that it is a rail- 
road for a human locomotive ; and that just so 
sure as it undertakes to run upon a road 
adapted only to animal power it will bury its 
wheels in the sand, dash itself among rocks, 
and come to in((vital)le wreck. 

If you don't believe this, try the other thing. 


Here are forty roads. Suppose you choose one 
of them, and see where you come out. Here is 
the di-am-shop road ; try it ; follow it, and see 
how long it will be before you come to a stump 
and a smash-up. Here is the road to sensual 
pleasure : you are just as sure to bury your 
wheels in the dirt as you try it ; jonr machine 
is too heavy for that track altogether. Here is 
the winding uncertain path of frivolity : there 
are morasses on each side of it ; and, with the 
headway you are under, you will be sure, 
sooner or later, to pitch into one of 
them. Here is the road of philosophy ; but 
it runs through a country from which the light 
of heaven is shut out ; and while you may be 
able to keep your machine right side up, it 
will only be by feeling your way along in a 
clumsy, comfortless kind of style, and with no 
certainty of ever arriving at the heavenly 
station-house. Here is the road of skepticism : 
that is covered with fog, and a fence runs across 
it within ten rods. Don't you see that your 
machine was never intended to run on those 
roads ? Don't you know that it never was ; 
and don't you know that the only track under 
heaven upon which you can run safely is the 
religious track ? Don't you know that just 
as long as you keep your wheels on that track, 
wreck is impossible ? Don't you know tliat is 
the only track on which wreck is not certain V 
I know it, if you don't ; and I tell you that on 
that track, which (rod has laid down expressly 
for your soul to run upon, your soul will lind free 
]»lay for all its wheels, and an unobstructed 
and ha])iiy jirogrcss. It is straight and narrow, 
but it is safe and solid, and furnishes tlu! only 
direct route to the Heavenly City. Now, (Jod 
m^,u\^^ yonr soul, and made religion for it, you 
ar(r a fool if you refuse to ])lace yourself on the 
track. Vou cannot ]>rosj)er anywlu-re else, and 
your niaehine will not run anywhere else. — 
77i( Tilroinh JyCt(( rs. 



Tliero is no better rolit-f to study tlian the 
regular perforinauce of spciial duties iu the 
house. To feel that one is really doing some- 
thing every day, that the house is tidier for 
one's efforts, and tin; comfort of the family 
enhanced, is the sweet warrant of content and 
cheerfulness. There is something about this 
liabit of daily work — this regular performance 
of duty — which tends to regulate the passions, 
to give calmness and vigor to the mind, to im- 
part a healthy tone to the body, and to diminish 
the desire for life in the street and for rescu't 
to gossiping companions. 

Were I as rich as Croesus, my girls should 
have something to do regularly, just as soon 
as they should be old enough to do anything. 
They should, iu the first place, make tlu'ir 
own bed and, take care of their own room. 
They should dress each other. They should 
sweep a portion of the liouse. They should 
learn above all things, to help themselves, and 
thus to be independent of all circumstances. 
A woman helpless from any other cause than 
sickness is essentially a nuisance. There is 
nothing womanly and ladylike in helplessness. 
]\[y policy would be, as girls grow uj), to 
assign them special duties, first in one part of 
the house, thcMi in another until tlu^y should 
become ac(juainted with all housewifely offices. 
And I should have an object in this beyond 
the simple acipiisitiou of a knowledge of house- 
wifery. It should be for the ac(piisition of 
habits of physical industry ; of habits that 
conduce to the health of body and mind; of 
habits that give them an insight into the nat- 
ure of labor, and inspire within them a 
genuine sympathy with those whoso lot it is to 

All young mind is uneasy if it he good for 
an3-thing. Th»!re is not the genuine human 
stuff in a girl who is habitually and by natnr.-; 
placid and inactive. The body and the miu«.L 



must both be in motion. If this tendency to 
activity be left to run loose undirected into 
channels of usefulness — a spoiled child is the 
result. A girl growing up into womanhood is, 
when unemployed, habitually uneasy. The 
mind aches and chafes, because it wants 
action for a motive. Now a mind in tliis con- 
dition is not benefited by the connuu::d to 
stay at home, or the withdrawal from c(jm- 
panions. It must be set to work. This vital 
energy that is struggling to find relief in 
demonstration slundd be so directed that 
habits may be formed : habits of industry that 
obviate the wish for change and unnecessary 
pla}'^, and form a regular drain upon it. Other- 
wise the mind becomes dissipated, the will 
irresolute, and confinement irksome. Girls 
will never be happy except in the company of 
their playmates, unless home becomes to tlieni 
a scene of regular duty and personal useful- 

There is another obvious advantage to be 
derived from the habit of engaging daily uiuni 
special household duties. The imagination 
of girls is apt to be active to an unhealthy de- 
gree wlien no corrective is employed. False 
views of life are engendered, and labor is 
regarded as menial. Ease comes to be looked 
upon as a suprenu'ly desirable thing ; so that 
when the real, inevitable cares of life come, 
there is no -pre])aration for llu'in, and weak 
(•om])lainings or ill-nature<l discontent are the 

And here lam naturally introduced loan- 
other sul>ject. Young women, the glory of 
\(.ur life is to do something, and to be some- 
thing. You very possibly may have formed 
the idea that ease and ])ersonal enjoynuMit are 
the ends of your life. This is a terrihle mis- 
take. Develoiunent, in the bn)adest sense, and 
in th(! liighest direction, is the end of your 
lite. \nn may possibly lind ease with it, and 
a great di-al of precious persoiud onjoymeiit: 

JOsiAir (;ii,i'.i:i;'r 1101,1, and. —o 

or your life may liu one liiii<; cxporicucc of 
self (k'liial. If yuu wisli to bo sometliiug more 
than the pet and phiytliing of a man ; if you 
would rise above the position of a pretty toy or 
the ornamental fixture of an establi.shment, 
you liave got a work to do. You liave got a 
I)osition to maintain in society ; you have got 
tlu^ p(jor and sick to visit ; you may possibly 
have a family to rear and train ; you liave got 
to take a load of care uiion your shoulders, and 
bear it through life. You have got a character 
to sustain, and 1 hope that you will have the 
heart of a husband to cheer and strengthen. 
Ease is not for you. Selfish enjoyment is not 
for you. The world is to be made better by 
you. You have got to suffer and to work ; and 
if there be a spark of the true fire in you, 3'our 
hearts will respond to these words. — The 
Titcomb Letters. 


Heaven is not readied at a single bound, 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 

I count this thing to be grandly true : 
That a noblo deed is a step toward God. 
Lifting the soul from the common clod 

To a purer air and a broader view. 

We rise by the things that are under our feet; 

By what we have mastered of good and gain ; 

]iy the })ride deposed and the passion slain. 
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. 
We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust 

When the morning calls us to life and light ; 

But our hearts grow weary and, ere the 
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. 

We liopt^, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, 

And we think that we mount tluj air on 

ISeyond the reach of sensual things, 

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 


Wings for the angel, but feet for men ! 

We may borrow the wings to find the way ; 

We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and 
pray ; 
But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls ; 

But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, 
And the sleeper waits on his pillow of stone. 

Heaven is not reached by a single bound ; 
But we build the ladder by which we rise 
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, 

And we mount to its summit round by round. 


God give us men ! A time like this demands 
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and ready 
hands ; 
Men whom the love of office cannot kill ; 
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy ; 

Men wlio possess opinions and a will ; 
Men who have honor ; men who will not lie ; 

Men who can stand before a demagogue 
And damn his treacherous tlatteries without 
winking ! 
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog 
In public duty, and in private tliinking : — 
For while the rabble with their thumb-worn 

Their large professions and their little deeds, 
Mingle in selfish strife, lo ! Freedom weeps, 
Wrong rules tlie land, and waiting justice 
sleeps ! 


LORD llor.LANl). — 1 

HOLLAND (IIknuy i:i(ii.\i;i. Fox), 
P)AUON, nil lMic;li.s]i statcsiujui, l)orii iii 
1773; died ill Is40. lie acceded to the 
title of liaroii Holhuid wlieii alxml a year 
old, ii[)on the death of ]iis lather, tht; iirsl 
IJaroii. lie \\a.s ('(liicalcd at Eton and 
()xt'ord, ^\■hl'r(! lie graduated in 1702. For 
liis training for ])ul)Iie life lie was mainly 
indebted to his uncle, Charles Jaines Fox. 
In 17'.*-), Jjord llolhind travelled in Spain 
and Italy. Here, before lie had reached 
his inajorit}^ he entered into an adulterous 
intiinaey Avitli Elizabeth A^issall, tlie 
daugliti'i- and heiress of a Avealthy West 
Indian, and the wife of Sir (Judfrey Wel> 
ster. Sir Godfrey brought suit against 
Lord Holland, from whom he recovered 
XG,000 damages, and obtained a divorce 
from his wife, who was in 1797 married to 
Lord Holland, who at the same time, by 
royal license, took her maiden name of 
Vassall, in place of his own patronymic of 
Fox. His legitimate children, however, 
discarded the name of Vassall, resuming 
their proper patronymic of Fox. In 1798 
Lord Holland made his lirst speech in the 
House of Lords, and was henceforth, to 
the close of his life, a frequent participator 
ill its discussions, always on the Whig 
side. At various times he held important 
positions under the (xovernment, among 
which was the strictly nominal one of 
Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, 
which, however, gavt' him a vote in the 
Cabinet Council. This he held from 18o0 
until liis death. After his marriage w'ith 
the divorced wife of Sir (iodfrey Webster, 
he took U[) his residence at Holland House, 
which was for nearly half a century 
a kind of rendezvous for men who had 



acquired note in Art,Literature, or Science, 
and for politicians of the Whig party. 
These men, however, never took tlieir 
Avives, sisters, or daughters there. Indeed, 
no Englishwoman who had any regard for 
lier social position ever entered the portals 
f'f Holland House, though nothing even 
a[)proacliing indecorum ever marred the 
elegant hospitality of the mansion. The 
only drawback seems to have been the 
strange manners of Lady Holland, which 
not unfrequently amounted to absolute 
rudeness toward her guests, who were, 
lioAvever, quite content to put up with it 
in consideration of the good cheer and the 
good company which they were sure to 
lind there. 

]jord Holland was a (juite voluminous 
author. Between 1802 and 1800 he made 
a long visit to Spain, one of tlie results of 
which was Some Account of the Life and 

Writing (f Lope Felix de Vega Carpio 
(1806), wliicli, witli additions, appeared in 
1817, under the title of lAves of Lope de 

Vee/a, and Cr. de Castro. In 1807, he put 
forth Three Comedies from the Spa)ush ; 
ai)d in 1808, an edition, with a long Pre- 
face, of Cliarles James Fox's, Ilistonj of 
the Enrhj Part of the Reii/n of James 11. 
Several works written by him, were pub- 
lished after his death by his son. Among 
these arc Memoirs of the Wtif] Party (1854.) 
Another puljlieation, The Opinions of Lord 
lloUand., as recorded in the Journals of the 
lloKsr of Lords fr<n)i 1 707 /« 1840, a}ipeared 
not long after his death. This, strictly 
speaking, is to be regarded as a work of 
Lord Holland, since the main part of it 
consists of his own sj»eeches delivered in the 
House of liOrds. lint by far the most no- 


L()i;i) IIOMiAND.— 3 

table of Lord Holland's books is his Foreifjn 
Reminiscences. This appeal's to have been 
written at intervals durint; the later years 
of his life, but was not printed until iHaO, 
when it appeared as "edited by his son, 
Henry Edward, Lord Holland," with a 
dedication to " Jerome Bonaparte, Mar- 
shal of France, the only surviving brotluu- 
of the Emperor Naj)oleon.'' This HcMiry 
Edward, third Loi-d Holland (born in ISO'J, 
died in 1859) was from 1839 to 1842 lirit- 
ish Minister to Tuscany. He died childless 
and with him the title became extinct, the 
estates falling to his sister, who was mar- 
ried to Thomas, Lord Lilford. The Foreit/n 
Reminiscences of Lord Holland relate main- 
ly to foreigners whom he met between the 
years 1791 and 1815. He gives numerous 
anecdotes which he had only from hearsay ; 
but in respect to these and other things he 
avers : " 1 can only vouch for the anecdotes 
I record, by assni-ing my readers that I 
believe them : I re[)eat them as they were 
received and luiderstood by mo, from what 
.appeared to be suHicient authority ; and I 
delineate the characters either as the result 
of my own impressions, or of the opinions 
conveyed to me by those who were most 
capable of drawing them correctly." 


I (liiiod frequently with General LafaYctt(^ 
ill 1701. Jle kept a sort of open table for 
oflicers of the National (xuard, and oilier per- 
sons zealous and forward in the cause of the 
Kevolution. I was pleased with the unaffected 
dignity and simplicity of his manners, and 
flattered by the openness with which lie spoke 
to me of his own views of the situation of the 
country. Ue was loud in condemning the 
brutality of I'etion, whose cold and offensive 



replies to the questions of the royal prisoners 
on the journey back from Varennes were very 
currently reported; and he was in his profes- 
sions, and I believe in his heart, much more 
confident of the sincerity of the King than 
common prudence should have allowed him to 
be, or than was justified either by the character 
of Louis himself, or by the truth as disclosed 
by subsequent events. 

Lafayette was, however, then as always, a 
pure, disinterested man, full of private affection 
and public virtue, and not devoid of such talents 
as firmness of pur})ose, sense of honor, and 
earnestness of zeal will, on great occasions, 
su})ply. He was indeed accessible to flattery, 
somewhat too credulous, and apt to mistake the 
forms, or — if I may so phrase it — the pedantry 
of liberty for the substance. These strictures, 
however, on his blemishes are loss applicable to 
the period to which I am now referring than to 
most others of his jiublic life ; for with all his 
love of poi)ularity, lie was then knowingly 
sa<;rificing it for the pui'pose of rescuing aCoui-t 
from contumely and injury; and, though a re- 
])ublicau in }trinci[)le, was active in preserving 
the nanui, and perhaps too much of the au- 
thority, of a King iu the new Constitution. 
He either tickled my youthful vanity, or gained 
my affections so much during my residence in 
I'aris, that I caught liis feelings, and became 
for the time enthusiastically jyersuadi'd of the 
King's attachment to the iiew Constitution. 


Louis XVr. neither a bad nor a foolish 
man, and he certainly was not a cruel one. 
Kut sincerity is no attribute of ])rinces educated 
ill the expectation of imwer, and exposed to the 
dangers of civil disturbance. As Louis did 
not inlierit, so neither did ho acquire, that 
virtue by discipline or reflection, lie meant 
the good of th(i people whom he deemed him- 
self destined to govern, l)ut he tlionght to pro- 
mote that good more certainly by preserving 


tliau hy surronJering jvny part of tliat authority 
whicli liis ancestors possessed. Vanity, a weed 
iiidigoiioiis in tho soil, and miidi favored b}' an 
elevated state on wliicli tlatteiy i.s continually 
sliowered, confirmed that notion in hi.s luiud, 
and disinclined him to any real confidence in 
his ostensible ministers and advisers. It made 
him fondly imagine that he could never become 
the tool of secret inachiiiatioiis, or the instru- 
ment of persons in his jidgment so greatly in- 
ferior in intellect and ac^quirements as those 
who surrouiuled him. 

M. de Caloniie told me that when he had as- 
certained that the Queen and her coterie were 
hostile t(j the plans he had prepared, he waited 
on till! King, respcictfully and delicately la- 
mented the Queen's reported disapprobation of 
his project, earnestly conjuring his Majesty, if 
not resolved to go through witli the plan, and 
to silence all o])position or cavil at it in the 
Court to allow h'un to suppress it in time; but 
if, on the other hand, his ]\Iujesty was deter- 
mined to persevere, suggesting the propriety 
of impressing on the Queen his earnest desire 
and wishes that nothing should escape her li])s 
which could sanction a doubt of the excelhun^e 
of the measures themselves, and still less of the 
determination of the Court to adopt and enforce 
tluMu. Louis at lirst scouted the notion of the 
(iueen (une Jemme, as he called her), forming 
or hazarding any opinion about it. But when 
M. de Calonne assured him that she spoke of 
the project in terms of disparagement and cen- 
sure, the King rang the bell, sent for her 
Majesty to the apartment, and after sternly 
and even coarsely rebuking her for meddling 
with matt»;rs, cmxquelles las fetnmes n^ont vieii 
d/aire, he, to the dismay of M. de Calonne, 
took her by the shoulders, and fairly turned 
her out of the room like a naughty child. " il/e 
voila perdu/' said M. de Calonne to himself, 
and ho was accordingly dismissed, and his 
scheme abandoned in tho course of a few days. 



As I was not preseutetl at Court. I never 
saw the Queen but at the phiy-house. She was 
then in affliction, and her countenance was, no 
doubt, disfigured b}' long suffering and resent- 
ment. I should not, however, sujipose that the 
habitual expression of it, even in a happier 
season, had ever been very agreeable. Her 
beauty, however extolled, consisted, I suspect, 
exclusively in a fair skin, a straight person, 
and a stately air, which her admirers termed 
dignity, and her enemies pride and disdain. 
Her total want of judgment and temper no 
doubt contributed to the disasters of the royal 
family ; but there was no member of it to whom 
the public was uniformly so harsh and unjust, 
and her trial and death were among the most 
revolting parts of the whole catastrophe. She 
was indeed insensible when brought to the 
scaffold ; but the previous persecution which 
she underwent was base, unmanly, cruel, and 
ungenerous to the last degree. 


It was on this visit to Paris in 1791 that I 
first formed accjuaintance with M. Talleyrand. 
I have seen him in most of the vicissitudes of 
fortune ; from his conversation I have derived 
much of the little knowledge I possess of the 
Icailing characters of France before and during 
the llevolntion. He was then still a bishop. 
He had, I liclicve, been originally forced into 
I foly ( )r(l"rs, on account of his lameness, by 
his family, wlwi on that ac('(uint treated him 
witli an indifffrcnci^ and unkindness sham<fnl 

and shocking H is generally tlionght he negotiated liis return to France 1 liroiigh 
.M;idanie de Staiil. He was on intimate terms 
u ilh lur, but had abandoned her society for 
tli:it of AEadame (Jrand before the ]>eace of 1S()2, 
when I saw him again in Paris. '^'- 11 find aroir 
iiiiiir. Mttiltitni', dc tSturl pour comioitrc tout le 
bonhcur ir aimer line l>i'(f" was a saying of his 


r.olU) HOLLAND.— 7 

mucli quoted at J'aris at tliat time in explana- 
tion of liis passion for Madaino Grand, wlio 
certainly did not win liiin or any one else hy 
the fascination of licr wit or conversation. 

It became necessary on the conclusion of the 
Concordat, that he should either revert to the 
hal>its and character of a prelate, or receive a 
dispensation from all the duties and obligation 
of the Order. Ho chose the latter; but Bona- 
2)arte, who affected at that time to restore great 
decorum in his Consular Court, somewhat mali- 
ciously insisted either on the dismissal of 
]\[adame Grand or his public nuptials with 
that lady. The (juestionable nature of her 
divorce from Mr. Grand created some obstacle 
to such a union. It was curious to see Sir 
Elijah Impey, the Judge who had granted 
her husband damages in India for her in- 
fidelity, caressed at her little court at Neuilly. 
His testimony was deemed essential, and he 
was not indisposed to w'ithhold it, because — 
notwithstanding his denial of riches in the 
House of Commons — he was at that very time 
urging a claim on the French Government to 
indemnify him for his losses in their funds. 
Sir Philip Francis, her ijaramour, then in 
Paris also, did not fail to draw the attention of 
Englishmen to the circ^umstance, though he 
was not admitted at Neuilly to complete the 
curious group with his judicial enemy and his 
quondam mistress. 


Persons who have dined with him at taverns 
and coffee-houses when it was convenient to 
him not to pay his reckoning, have assured me 
that, though the youngest and poorest, he 
always obtained, without exacting it, a sort of 
deference, or even submission, from the rest of 
the company. Though never parsimonious, he 
was at that period of his life extremely atten- 
tive to the details of expense, the price of pro- 
visions and of other necessary articles, and, in 
short, to every branch of domestic economy. 


Tlie knowledge thus eai-lj acciuirod in such 
matters was useful to liiui in a more exalted 
station. He cultivated and even made a great 
parade of his information in subsequent periods 
of his career, and thus sometimes detected and 
frequently prevented cmhezzlement in the ad- 
ministration of public accounts. 

Nothing could exceed the order and regularity 
with which liis household, both as Consul and 
Emperor, was conducted. The great things 
he accomplished, and the savings he made, 
without even the imputation of avarice or 
meanness, with the sum comparatively incon- 
siderable of l."),000.000 of francs a year, are 
marvelous, and expose his successors — and in- 
deed all European princes — to the reproach of 
negligence or incapacity. In this branch of 
his government he owed much to Duroc. It is 
said that they often visited the markets (les 
Jiallea) of Paris, dressed in plain clothes, and 
earl}' in the morning. When any great ac- 
counts were to be submitted to the Emperor, 
Duroc would apprise him in secret of some of 
the minutest details. By an adroit allusion to 
them, or a careless remark on the points upoix 
which he had received such recent and accurate 
informatiiMi, Napoleon contrived to impress his 
audience that the master's eye was every- 

For instance, when the Tuilleries were fur- 
nished, the upholsterer's charges, though not 
very exorbitant, were suspected by the I'hnperor 
to be higher than the usual profit of that trade 
would have warranted. He suddenly asked 
some Minister wh) was with him how much the 
egg at the end of the bell-rope should cost. 
" «/'i(//io/vj," was the answer. '' K/c bien ! 
nous verrons" said he ; and then cut off the 
ivory Jiandlc, calb'd for a valet, and bidding 
him dress himself in plain and ordinary clothes, 
and neither divulge his imnu'diale commission 
or general euii)loynient to any living soul, 
directed him to inquire the price of such 


Jii'ticles at sov(!ral .sliops in I'aris, ami to milcr 
a dozen as for liiinsclt'. 'I^Ik'J wen; onc-lliiril 
lifs.s (loar tliaii those furiiislicd to tli(3 i)a,lace. 
The Einpenu', inf'.sn-iiiif that tlio same advan- 
tage liad Ix'cu t.ilvcn in tlio otlic-r artich-s, 
istruck a tliird off the whole charge, and di- 
rected the tradesman to be informetl tliat tlii.^ 
was done at liis express command, because Ik; 
liad liimself, o)t inspection., discovered th-; 
cliargt's to l»e by one-third too exorbitant. 

^Vhen afterwards, in tlie height of his glory, 
he visited Caen witli tlie Enii)ress Maria 
Louisa and a train of crowned heads and princes, 
his old friend M. Mechin, the Prefect, aware 
of lifs taste for detail, waited upon him with 
live statistical details of the expenditure, 
revenue, prices, produces, and commerce of the 
Department. " C^est bon,'^ said he, when he 
received them on the evening of his arrival ; 
" vous et nioi nous ferons bien de V esprit snr 
tout cela demain an Conseil.'''' Accordingly 
he astonished all the leailing j)roprietors of the 
Department, at the meeting next day, by his 
minute knowledge of the prices of good and 
bad cider, and of the produce and other cir- 
cumstances of the Vii.rious districts of the De- 
jiartment. Other princes have shown an equal 
fondness for minute details with Napoleon; 
but here is the difference. The use they made 
of their knowledge was to torment their in- 
feriors and weary their company : the purpose 
to which Napoleon applied it was to confine 
the objects and interests of the commu- 
nity. .... 

His powers of application and memory 
seemed almost preternatural. There was 
scarcel}^ a man in France — and none in em- 
ployment — with whose private history, char- 
acter, and qualilications, he was not ac- 
quainted. He had, when Emperor, notes and 
tables, which he called '"The Moral Statistics 
of the Empire." He revised and corrected 
them by ministerial reports, private conversa- 
16 '*' 


tion^ and correspondence. He received all 
letters himself, and — what seems incredible 
— he read and recollected all that he received. 
He slept little, and was never idle one instant 
when awake. When he had an liour fur 
diversion, he not unfrequently t'inployed it in ■ 
looking over a book of logaritlmis, which he 
acknowledged, with some snrprisc, was at all 
seasons of his life a recreation to him. So 
retentive was his memory of nnmbcrs, that 
sums over which he had once glanced liis eye 
were in his mind ever, after. He recollected 
the respective produce of all taxes through 
every year of his administration, and could at 
any time repeat them even to centimes. 

Thus his detection of errors in accounts 
appeared marvelous, and he often indulged in 
the pardonable artifice of displaying these 
faculties in a way to create a persuasion that 
his vigilance was almost supernatural. In 
running over an account of expenditure, he 
perceived the ration of a battalion charged on 
a certain day at Besanc-on. " Mais le hataillon 
)i' etait pas la,''' said he ; '' il y a erreur.'^ 
The Minister, recollecting that tlie Emperor 
liad been at the time out of France, and con- 
fiding in the regularity of his subordinate 
agents, persisted that the battalion must have 
been at Besan(;on. Xapoleon insisted on 
further inquiry. It turned out to be a fraud 
and not a mistake. Tlie speculating account- 
ant was dismissed ; and tlie scrutinizing spirit 
of the Emperor circulated with the anecdote 
through every bran(;h of the public service, 
in a way to deter every clerk from committing 
the sliglitest error, from feai- of innnediato 

His knowledge in other matters was often 
as accurate, and nearly as surjtrising. Not 
only wer(! the Swiss dejjuties in 1801 aston- 
ished at his familiar acquaintance with the 
history, laws, and usages of their country, 
which seemed the result of a life of research, 


but even the envoys of the insignificant Re- 
public of San Marino, wlio waited tipon lijin at 
Bologna, were astonished at finding that he 
knew the families and feuds of that small 
community, and discoursed on the 
views, conditions, and interests of parties and 
individuals, as if he had been educated in the 
petty squabbles and local jmlitics of that 
diminutive society. I remember tliat a sim- 
ple native of that place told me, in 1814, that 
the j)he!iomenon was accounted fcjr by the 
Saint of the town appearing over-night, in 
order to assist his deliberations. 

Some anecdotes related to me by the distin- 
gui.shed officer who conveyed him in the Uh- 
(Immted to Elba in 1814, prove the extent, 
variety, and accuracy of the knowledge of 
Napoleon. On his first arrival on the coast, 
in company with Sir Neil Campbell, an Aus- 
trian and a Kussian commissioner. Captain 
Usher waited upon him, and was invited to 
dinner. He conversed much on naval affairs, 
and explained the i)lan he had once conceived 
of forming a vast fieet of IHO ships-of-the-line. 
Usher said that with the immense means he 
then commanded, he ' saw no impossibility in 
building and manning any number of ships, 
but his difii<ailty would have consisted in 
forming thorough seamen, as distinguished 
from what we call smooth-water sailors. Napo- 
leon replied that he had provided for that also; 
he had organized exercises for them afioat, 
not only in harbors but in smaller vess(^ls near 
the coast, by which they might have befsn 
trained to go through, even in rough weather, 
the arduous nian<euvr(^s of sciamanship; and he 
mentioned among them the ki-eping of a ship 
clear of her anchors in a heavy sea. The 
Austrian, who sus])ccted Napoleon of talking 
in general iipon subjects lu! imperfectly un- 
derstood, a(^knowledged his own ignorance, 
and asked him the meaning of the term, the 
nature of the difficulty, and the method of sur- 



mounting it. On this the Emperor took up 
two forks, and explained the problem in sea- 
manship, which is not an easy one, in so 
short, scientific and practical a way that Cap- 
tain Usher assured me he knew none but j^ro- 
fessional men — and very few of them — who 
could off-hand have given so perspicuous, 
seamanlike, and satisfactory a solution of the 

On the same voyage, when the propriety of 
putting into a certain harbor of Corsica was 
under discussion, and the want of a pilot urged 
as an objection. Napoleon described the depth 
of water, shoals, currents, bearings, andanchoi*- 
age, with a minuteness which seemed as if he 
had himself acted in that capacit}^, and which, 
on reference to the charts, was found scrupu- 
lously accurate. When his cavalry and bag- 
gage arrived at Porto Ferrajo, the commander 
of the transports said that he had been on the 
point of putting into a certain creek near 
Genoa; upon hearing which Napoleon ex- 
claimed, '* It is well you did not ; it is the 
worst place in the Mediterranean ; you would 
not have got to sea again for a month or six 
weeks." He then ])roceeded to allege reasons 
for the difficult}', whi(rh were (juite sufficient, if 
the j)eculiarities of the little bay were such as 
he described. But Captain Usher, having 
never heard of them during his service in the 
Mediterranean, suspected that the Emperor 
was mistaken, or had confounded some report 
lie had heard from mariners in his youth. 
When, however, ho mentioned the circum- 
stance, many years afterwards, to Captain 
])undas, that officer confirmed the report of 
Napoleon in all its particulars, and expressed 
astonishment at its correctness. '' For," said 
he, " I tliought it a discovery of my own, hav- 
ing as(uirtained all you have just told mo 
about that crecsk by observation and experi- 
ence." .... 

Napoleon, when Consul and Emperor, seldom 


wrote, but dictati'd mucli. It was difficult to 
follow him, and ho uftou objected to any revis- 
ion of what he had dictated. When a word 
had escaped his amanuensis, and he was asked 
what it was, he would answer somewhat pet- 
tishly, '' Je ne rejjeterai pas le mot. Refle- 
chisse^ rappelez voiis du mot quefai dicte, et 
ecrive^-le, car jwur moije ne le repeteral 2>nsr 
In matters of importance he would look over 
and correct what had been written from his 
dictation, and woidd afterwards rnpeat word 
for word the sentences he had composed and 
revised. His style was clear. " Hoyez clair, 
tout le reste metulra,^^ was a maxim of his. 
In matters of l)usiness he very justly ridiculed 
and deiied that absurd canon of French crit- 
icism which forbids the recurrence of a word 
twice in the same sentence, or even page. He 
had several volumes of his corresj)ondence 
copied out and bound in folio. There is some 
mystery attending the fate of tln;sc books. 
From them, however, the Lettres inidites were 



HOLMES, Oliver Wendell, an 
American author,born at Cambridge, Mass., 
in 1809. He was educated at Phillips 
Academy, Andover, and at Harvard Uni- 
versity, where lie graduated in 1829. He 
then began the study of law, which he 
abandoned at the end of a year for medi- 
cine. After several years of study in 
Boston and in Paris, he received his degree 
of M.D. in 183G. In this year he i)ub- 
lished his first volume of Poems. While 
a student he had contributed to the Col- 
h'ljlan^ published at Harvard. About 
1838 it was proposed by the Government 
to break up the old battle-ship ConHtitution 
no longer sea-worthy. The indignation of 
Holmes found vent in his poem " Old 
Ironsides," the popular name of the vessel. 
This lyric, appealing to the patriotism of 
the whole country, gave its authi>r a repu- 
tation, sustained by other ])oems in his 
first volume. Inl836aiul 1887 he gained 
three out of the four medals for the 
" Boylston Prize Dissertations." These 
essays were published together in 1838, in 
wliich year Dr. Holmes was a})jiointed 
Professor of Anatomy and Physioh)gy in 
Dartmouth College. At the end of two 
3'ears, he resigned this position, and began 
medical practice in Boston. In 1847 he 
becanii; Professor of Anatomy and Physi- 
()log\' in the Harvai'd Mcflical School, 
\vh(!ie he riMuained until ISSii. He was 
one of the earlicjst contributors to the 
Atlantic Monthlji, for which he wrote The 
Autocrat of l/ir fircakfaxt-TaMe, publislied 
in book foi-m in 1S')9, The Profo^sor at the 
lirealcfaxt-Tahle (iSllO), and 'The Poet at 
the lireakfaiit-Tahle (lS72. ) His poems, 
besides those already mentioned, were 



some years since collected under the title, 
The Poetical Works of Oliver iVeudell 
Holmes. An udditiomil volume Be/or,- the 
Curfeiv and other I'oemn, was ])ublisliud in 
1888. Two novels Elsie Vennrr, a Ho- 
mance of Destini/ (^iStll), and Th(; Guar- 
dian Ani/el (18()8), ilUistra(in<f his theory 
of heredity as a factor in human destiny, 
give many faithful and some exaggerated 
sketches of New England types of cha-rac- 
ter. A later novel, A 3Iortal Antipathy 
(1885), is a psychological study, in which 
is told the story of a young man's cure of 
an antipathy against all womankind, born 
of an accident in infancy 

Dr. Holmes's other literary works are 
Soundinr/s from the Atlantic^ a collection of 
essays (18<)4), Meehanisni in Thought and 
Morah (1871), 3Iemoirs of John Lothrop 
Motley (1879), P ayes from an Old Volume 
of Life (1883), Ralph Waldo Emerson (1884,) 
One Hundred Days in Europe (1887.) 
Among his medical works are Delusions 
(1842), Currents and Counter Oury-ents in 
Medical Science (1861), and Border Lines 
in some Provinces of Medical Science (1862.) 


Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long lias it waved on high,. 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rang tlie battle-shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar ; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep tlie clouds no more ! 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood. 

Where knelt the vanc^uished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, 


No more shall feel the victor's tread, 

Or know the conquered knee ; — 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea ! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave; 
Her thunders sluiok the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave j 
Nail to the mast her holy ilag,* 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms — 

The lightning and the gale ! 


This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign. 

Sails the unshadowed main,^ 

The vejiturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their 
streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wro('ke<l is the ship of pearl ! 

And evorv chambered cell, 
Where its <lim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed — 
Its irised ceiling rent,its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after 3'^ear beheld the silent toil 

I'hat s])read his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as th(^ spiral grew, 
He left the ])ast 3'ear's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with softstej) its shining archway through, 

liuilt up its idle door. 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew 

the old no more. 

Tlianks for the heaveidv message brought l>y 
Child of the wandering sea, 
Cast from her lap forlorn ! 


From tliy (lead lijjs a clciirer note is boriio 
Than over Tiituii l»le\v from wreutlicd Imra t 

Wliile on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a 
voice that sings : 

Buihl thee more stately mansions, my soul. 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave the low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut tliee from heaven with a dome more vast. 

Till thou at length art free. 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unrest- 
ing sea ! 


We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber. 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild tlowers who will stoop to number ? 
A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy fame is proud to win them ; 
Alas for those who never sing, 

But die witli all their music in them. 
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone, 

Whose song has told their heart's sad story : 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sAveej) 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow. 
But where the glistening night-dews weep 

On Tiaiueless sorrow's church-yard pillow. 
O hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine, 

SI(»\v-dro]iped from misery's (>rushing presses ! 
If singing Itreath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given. 
What endless melodies were poured, 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven. 


Come, dear old comrade, you and I 
Will steal an hour from daj's gone by, 
Xhe shining days when life was new. 



And all was bright with morning dew, 

The lusty days of long ago, 

When you were Bill, and I was Joe. 

Your name may flaunt a titled trail 
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail, 
And mine as brief appendix wear 
As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare ; 
To-day, old friend, remember still, 
That I am Joe, and you are Bill. 

You've won the great world's envied prize, 
And grand you look in people's eyes, 
With H. O. X. and LL. D. 
In big brave letters, fair to see ; — 
Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! — 
How are you, Bill ? How are you, Joe ? 

You've worn the judge's ermined robe, 
You've taught your name to half the globe 5 
You've sung mankind a deathless strain ; 
You've nnulo the dead past live again; 
The world may call you what it will, 
But you and I are Joe and Mill. 

The chafling young folks stare and sav 

" See those old buffers, bent and gray— 

Tlu'v talk like fellows in their teens ! 

Mad, poor old boys ! That's what it means" — 

And shake their heads ; they little know 

The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe !— 

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes — 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
As Joe looks fondly up to J5ill. 

Ah, jiensive scholar, what is fame ? 

A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; 

A giddy whirlwiiur.s iickh'! gust, 

Tliat lifts a pinch of mortal dust ; 

A few swift years and who can show 

Which dust was Bill and which was Joe? 

The weary idol takes his stand, 


Holds out liis bruised and iu^liiiig liaud, 
While g:4)iii|^ thousands conio and j^o — 
How vain it seems, this empty show ! 
Till all at once his ])ulses thrill ; — 
'Tis poor old Joe's " God bless you, ]?ill." 

And shall we breathe in happicu- spheres 
The names that pleased our mortal ears ; 
In some sweet lull of harp and song 
For earth-born s[)irits ]K)ne too long, 
Just whispering of the world behjw 
When this was liill, and that was Joe? 

No matter ; while our home is here 
No sounding name is half so dear ; 
Wliwi fades at length our lingering day, 
Who cares what ])(>nn)ous tonibstones say ? 
Read on the hearts that love us still, 
llicjacet Joe. Ilicjacet mil. 

() for one hour of youthful joy ! 

(rive back m}' twentieth spring! 
I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, 

Than reign, a gray -beard king. 

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age ! 

Away with learning's crown ! 
Tear out life's wisdom-written page, 

And dash its trophies down ! 

One moment let my life-blood stream 
From boyhood's fount of flame ! 

Give nu! ou(! gi(hly ruling dream 
Of life all love and fame ! 

My listening angel heard the prayer, 

And, calndy smiling, said, 
" If I but touch thy silvered hair 

Thy hasty wish hath sped. 

'H^ut is there nothing in thy track. 

To bid thee fondly stay, 
While tlie swift seasons hurry back 

To lind the wished-for day ? " 

" Ah, truest soul of womankiud. ! 



Without tliee what were life ? 
One bliss I cannot leave behind : 
I'll take — my — precious — wife ! " 

The angel took a sapphire pen 

And wrote in rainbow dew, 
The man would be a hoy again. 

And he a hushand too ! 

"And is there nothing yet unsaid, 

Before the change appears ? 
Eemember all tlieir gifts have fled 

AVith the dissolving j-ears." 

" ^^^'ly yes ; " for memory would recall 

My fond paternal joys ; 
" I could not bear to leave them all — 

I'll take — my — girl — and— boys." 

Tlie smiling angel dropped his pen, — 

'■ Why tills will never do; 
The man woidd he a hoy again, 
And he a father too.!" 

And so I laughed — my laughter woke 
The household with its noise — 

And wrote my dream, when morning broke, 
To please the gray-haired boys. 


Slow toiling upward from the misty vale, 
I leave the bright enamelled zones below ; 
Xo mon^ for me their beauteous bloom shall 


Their lingering sweetness load llie morning 

gale ; 
]''('w are the .slender flowerets, scentless, j)ale, 
That on their ice-clad streams all trembling 

Along the nnirgin of unnielting snow ; 
Vet with unsaddened voice thy verge I hail, 
Wbit(! realm of peace above the /lowering line; 
AVclconu) thy frozen domes, thy rocky s]>ires ! 
O'er thee undiinmed the moon-girt planets 


( )n thy juajestic altars fade tho fires 



That filled tlio nir with smoko of vain desires, 
Aud all the uncluiided blue of lieaveii is thine ! 


Behold the rocky wall 
That down its sloping sides 
Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they 

In rushing river-tides ! 

Yon stream, whose sources run 
Turned by a pebble's edge, 
Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun 

Through the cleft mountain-ledge. 

The slender rill had strayed. 
But for the slanting stone, 
To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid 
Of foam-flecked Oregon. 

So from the lieights of Will 
Life's parting stream descends, 
And, as a moment turns its slender rill. 
Each widening torrent bends — 

From the same cradle's side, 
From the same mother's knee — 
One to long darkness and the frozen tide, 
One to the Peaceful Sea ! 


Time is a thief wIkj leaves his tools behind 
him ; 
He comes by night, he vanishes at dawn ; 
We track his footsteps but we never find him : 
Strong locks are broken, massive bolts are 

And all around are left the bars and borers, 

Th(> splitting wedges and the prying keys. 

Such aids as serve the soft-shod vault ex]»lorers 
To crack, wn-nch o]>cn, rille as they please. 

Ah, these are tools which Ih^aven in mercy 

lends us ! 
When gathering rust has clenched our shackles 




Time is the aiigel-tliief that Nature sends us 
To break the cramping fetters of our past. 

Mourn as we may for treasures he has taken, 
Poor as we feel of lioai-tleJ wealtli bereft, 

More precious are tliose iniplcnieuts forsaken, 
Found in the wreck his ruthless hands have 

Some lever that a casket's hinge has broken 
Pries off a bolt, and lo ! our souls are free ; 

J'^ach year some Open Sesame' is spoken. 

And every decade drops its master-key. 

So as from 3'ear to year we count our treasures. 
Our loss seems less, and larger look our 
Time's wrongs repaid in mure than even 
measure, — 
We lose our jewels, but we bri'uk our 

He/ore the ( UirJ'cw. 


Kemember that talking is one of the hue arts, 
— the noblest, the most important, ami the 
most diflicuU, — and that its iluent harmonies 
may be sjioihxl by the intrusion of a singh; 
false note. Therefore conversation wliich is 
suggestive rallier tlian argumentative, which 
lets out th(i most of each talker's results of 
thought, is commonly the }»leasant(>st and the 
must prolitabb". It is not, at tlie best, 
for two persons lallving togetlier to make the 
most of eiicli otlii'i-'.s tliouglils, there are so 
many of tliem. 

['I'he coniiiaiiy looked as if tliey wanted an 
explanation. J 

Wlien John and Tliomas, for instance, are 
talking togetlier, it is natural enough tliat 
amr)ng the si.\ linn- should be mt)re or less 
confusion and misapprejieiision. 

[ Our landlady turned j)a]e ;- — no (loid)t she 
thougiit there was a sirrew loose in my intellects 
— and that involved the probable loss of a 



boardor. A sovorc-lookin^ ])orson, wlio wears 
a Spanish cloak and a sad clieck, llutftl hy tlio 
passions of tlie mclodniina, whom 1 uiKh-rstand 
to be tlu^ professional nifliari of tlie neighbor- 
ing theatre, alluded, with ;l certain lifting of 
the brow, drawing down of the corners of the 
mouth, and sonn-what rasping voce di petto, 
to Falstaff's nine men in buckram. Every- 
body looked up. I believe tlu^ old gentleman 
opposite was afraid I should seize the carving- 
knife; at any rate, lie slid it to one side, as it 
were carelessly.] 

I tliink, T said, I can make it plain to I'en- 
jamin Fraidtliu here, that there are at least 
six personalities distinctly to be recognize*] as 
taking part in that dialogue between John 
and Thomas. 

1. The r(>al John ; known only 
to his Maker. 

2. John's ideal Jolin ; never the 
real o\\(\ and often very 

Three Johns. J unlike him. 

. Thomas's ideal John ; never 
the real John, nor John's 
John, but often very un- 
like either. 

( 1. The real Thomas. 
Three Thomases. } 2. Thomas's id(>al Thomas. 
( 3. John's ideal Thomas. 

Only one of the three Johns is taxed ; oidy 
one can be weighed on a platform-balance; 
but the other two are just as important in the 
conversation. Let us suppose the, real John 
to be old, dull, and ill-looking. iJut as the 
Higher INnvers liave not conferred on men the 
gift of seeing themselves in the true light, 
John very possibly conceives himself to be 
youthful, witty, and fascinating, and talks 
from that point of view of this ideal. Thomas, 
again, believes him to be an artful rogue, we 
will say ; therefore he is, so far as Tliomas's 
attitude in the conversation is concerned, au 



artful rogue, though really simple and stu- 
pid. The same conditions apply to the three 
Thomases. It follows, that, until a man can be 
found who knows himself as his Maker knows 
him, or who sees himself as others see him, 
there must be at least six persons engaged in 
every dialogue between two. Of these, the 
least important, philosophically speaking, is 
the one that we have called the real person. 
No wonder two disputants often get angry, 
when there are six of them talking and listen- 
ing all at the same time. 

A very unphilosophical application of the 
above remarks was made by a young fellow, 
answering to the name of John, wlio sits near 
me at table. A certain basket of peaches, a rare 
vegetable, little known to boarding-houses, was 
on its way to me via this unlettered Johannes. 
He appropriated the three that remained in 
the basket, remarking that there was just one 
apiece for him. I convinced him that his prac- 
tical inference was hasty and illogical, but in 
the meantime he had eaten tlie peaches. — The 
Autocrat of the lireal^fast- Table. 


The rapidity with which ideas grow old in 
our memories is in a direct ratio to the squares 
of their importance. Their apparent age runs 
up miraculously, like the value of diamonds, 
as they increase in magnitude. A great 
calamitj^, for instance, is as old as the trilobites 
an hour after it has happened. It stains 
backward through all the leaves we have turned 
over in the l)0ok of life, before its blot of tears 
or of blood is dry on the 2)age we are turning. 
For this we seem to have lived; it was fore- 
.shadowed in dreams that we leaped out of in 
the cold sweat of terror; in the "dissolving 
views " of (lark day-visions; all omens j)ointed 
to it; all paths led to it. After the tossing 
half-forgetful ness of the first sleep that follows 
Buch an event, it comes upon us afiesh, as a 


surprise, at waking; in a few moments it is 
old again — old as eternity. — 77(6 Autocrat 
of' the Urea A/a st- Table. 


T don't know anytliing sweeter than this 
leaking in of Nature through all the cracks in 
the walls and floors of cities. You heap up a 
million tons of hewn rocks on a square mile or 
two of earth which was green once. The trees 
look down from the hill-sides and ask each 
other, as they stand on tiptoe — "What are 
these people about '/ "' And the small herbs 
at their feet look up and whisper back — "We 
will g6 and see." So the small herbs pack 
themselves up in the least possible bundles, and 
wait until the wind steals to them at night 
and whispers — " Come with me." Then they 
go softly with it into the great city — one to a 
cleft in the pavement, one to a spout on the 
roof, one to a seam in the marbles over a rich 
gentleman's bones, and one to the grave with- 
out a stone where nothing but a man is buried 
— and there they grow, looking down on the 
generations of men from mouldy roofs, looking 
lip from between the less-trodden pavements, 
looking out through iron cemetery-railings. 
Listen to them, when there is *>nly a light breath 
stirring, and you will hear them saying to each 
other — " ^Vait awhile !" The words run along 
the telegraph of those narrow green lines that 
border the roads leading from the city, until 
they reach the slope of the hills, and the trees 
repeat in low murmurs to each other — "Wait 
awhile ! " By-and-by the flow of life in the 
streets e1)bs, and tlu; old leafy inhabitants — the 
smaller tribes always in front — saunter in, one 
by one, very careless seemingly, but very tena- 
cious, until they swarm so that the great stones 
gape from each other with the crowding of 
their roots, and the feldspar begins to be 
picked out of the granite to find them food. 
At last the trees take up their solemn line of 
17 257 


march, and never rest until they have encamp- 
ed in the market-phxce. Wait long enough and 
you will iindan old doting oak hugging a huge 
worn block in its yellow underground arms ; 
that was the corner-stone of the State-House. 
Oh, so patient she is, this imperturbable 
Nature ! — The Autocrat of the Breakfast 


Genius has an infinitely deeper reverence 
for character than character can have for genius. 
To be sure, genius gets the world's praise, be- 
cause its work is a tangible product, to be 
bought, or had for nothing. It bribes the com- 
mon voice to praise it by presents of speeches, 
poems, statues, pictures, or whatever it can 
please with. Chai-acter evolves its best 
products for liome consumption ; but, mind 
you, it takes a deal more to feed a family for 
thirty years that to make a holiday feast for 
our neighbors once or twice in our lives. You 
talk of the fire of genius. INIany a blessed 
woman, who dies unsung and unremembered, 
has given out more of the real vital heat that 
keeps the life in human souls, without a spark 
flitting through her Inimble chimney to tell 
tlie world about it, than would set a dozen 
theories smoking, or a hundred odes simmering, 
in the brains of so many men of genius. It is 
in latent caloric, if I may Iwrrow a philosopliical 
expression, that many of the noblest hearts 
give out the life that warms them. Cornelia's 
lijjS grow white, and her jiulse hardly warms 
licr thin fingers, — but she has nu^lted all the 
ice out of the lifurts of those young Gracchi; 
and her lost heat is in the blood of her youth- 
ful heroes. AVe are always valuing tlie soul's 
temju'rature by the tliermometer of public 
deed or word. Yet the great sun himself, when 
he pours his noonday beams ui)on some vast 
liyaline boubler, rent from the eternal ice-quar- 
rii'S, and flo:itiiig toward the tropics, never 



warms it a fraction altove tlie thirty-two degrees 
of Fahreiilieit that marked the moment wlieii 
the first drop trickled down its side. 

How we all like the si)irting up of a fountain, 
see«mingly against the law that makes water 
ev((rywhere slide, roll, leap, tumble headlong, to 
get as low as the earth will let it ! That is 
genius. lUit what is this transient upward 
movement, which gives us the glitter and llie 
rainbow, to that unsleeping, all-present force 
of gravity, the same yesterday to-day, and 
for(!ver (if the universe be eternal) — the great 
outspread hand of God himself, forcing all 
things down into their ])laces, and keeping 
them there ? Such, in smaller proportion, is 
the force of character to the fitful movements 
of genius, as the}' are or have been linked to 
each other in many a household, where one 
name was historic, and the other — let me say 
the nobler — unknown, save by some faint re- 
ticcted ray, borrowed from its lustrous com- 

Oftentmies, as 1 have lain swinging on the 
water, in the swell of the Chelsea ftsrryboats, 
in that long, sharj)-pointed, black cradle in 
which I love to let the great mother rock me, 
I have seen a tall ship glide by against the 
tide, as if drawji by some invisible tow-line, 
with a hundred strong arms pulling it. Her 
sails hung unfilled, her streamers were droop- 
ing, she had neither side-wheel nor stern- 
wheel ; still she moved on, stately, in serene 
triumph, as if with her own life. But I knew 
that on the other side of the ship, hidden be- 
neath the great hulk that swam so majestically, 
there was a little toiling steam-tug, with heart 
of fire and arms of iron, that was hugging it 
close and dragging it bravely on ; and 1 knew, 
that, if the little steam-tug untwined her arms 
and left the tall ship, it would wallow and roll 
abt)ut, and drift hitlier and thither, and go off 
with the relluent tide, no man knov.s whither. 
And so 1 have known more than one yenius, 



high-decked, full-freighted, wide-sailed, ga}^- 
pennoned, that, but for the bare toiling arms, 
and brave, warm, beating heart of the faithful 
little wife, that nestled close in his shadow, 
and clung to him, so that no wind or wave 
could part them, and dragged him on against 
all the tide of circumstance, would soon have 
gone down on the stream, and been heard of 
no more. No, I am too much a lover of 
genius, I sometimes think. And 3'et, when 
a strong brain is weighed with a true heart, it 
seems to me like balancing a bubble against a 
wedge of gold. — The Professor at the JBreak- 
fast- Table. 

kature's pkeparatiox fok death. 
No human being can rest for any time in a 
state of equilibrium, where the desire to live 
and that to depart just balance each other. If 
one has a house, which he has lived and 
always means to live in, lie pleases himself 
with the thought of all the conveniences it 
offers him, and thinks little of its wants and 
imperfections. But once having made up his 
mind to move to a better, every incommodity 
starts out upon him, until the very ground-plan 
of it seems to have changed in his mind, and 
liis thoughts and affections, each one of them 
packing up its little bundle of circumstances, 
liave quitted their several chambers, and nooks 
and migrated to the new home, long before its 
apartments are ready to receive their bodily 
tenant. It is so with the body. _ Most persons 
liave died before they expire — di«'d to all 
earthly longings, so that tlie last breath is 
only, as it were, the locking of the door of the 
already desert<'d mansion. The fact of the 
trancjuillity witli which the great majority of 
dying pers(»ns await this locking of those gates 
of life througli which its airy angels have been 
going and coming, from tlie moment of the 
lirst cry, is familiar to those who have been 
often called upon to witness the last jteriod of 
life. A.Jmost always there is a preparation 


made by Nature for iim-arthiiig a soul, just as 
on a smaller scale then; is for the removal of a 
milk-tooth. The roots which hold human life 
to earth are absorbed before it is lifted from 
its place. Some of the dying are weary and 
want rest, the idea of which is almost insej)- 
arable in the universal mind from death. Some 
are in pain, and want to be rid of it, even 
though the anodyne be dropped, as in the 
legend, from the sword of the Death-Angel. 
Some are stupid, mercifully narcotized that 
they may go to sleep without long tossing 
about. And some are strong in faith and 
hope,^so, that, as they draw near the next 
world, they would fain hurr^^ toward it, as the 
caravan moves faster over the sands when the 
foremost travellers send word along the file 
that water is in sight. Though each little 
party that follow-s in a foot-track of its own 
will have it that the water to which others 
think they are hastening is a mirage, not the 
less has it been true in all ages and for human 
beings of every creed which recognized a future, 
that those who have fallen worn out by their 
march through the Desert have dreamed at 
least of a River of Life, and thought they 
heard its murmurs as they lay dying. — Tlie 
Professor at the Breakfast- Table. 


Though he had mourned for no lost love, at 
least so far as was known, though he had never 
suffered the pang of parting with a child, 
though he seemed isolated from those joys and 
griefs which come with the ties of family, he 
too had his private urn tilled with the ashes 
<pf extinguished hopes, lie was the father of 
a dead book. 

Why '' Thoughts on the Universe, by l>yles 
(Iridley, A.M., " had not met with an eager 
welcome and a permanent demand from the 
discriminating pu])lic, it wouhl take us too 
long to inquire In detail. Indeed, he himself 
was never able to account satisfactorily for the 


state of things which his bookseller's account 
made evident to hira. He liad read and re-read 
his work ; and the more familiar he became with 
it, the less was he able to understand the sin- 
giilar want of popular appreciation of what he 
could not help recognizingas its excellences. Ho 
had a special copy of his work, printed on large 
paper and sumptuously bound. He loved to 
read in this, as people read over the letters of 
friends who have li>ng been dead; and it might 
have awakened a feeling of something far re- 
moved from the ludicrous, if his comments on 
his own production could have been heard. 
" That's a thought, now, for you ! — See IMr. 
Thomas Babington Macaulay's Essay printed 
six years after this bookJ' " A felicitous image ! 
— and so everybody would have said if only ^Ix*. 
Thomas Carlyle had hit upon it.-' "If this is 
jiot genuine pathos, where will you find it, I 
should like to know ? And nobody to open the 
book where it staiuls written but one poor old 
man — in this generation at least — in this gen- 
eration." It may be doubted whether he would 
ever have loved his book with such jealous fond- 
ness if it had gone through a dozen editions, 
and everybody was quoting it to his face. But 
now it lived only for him ; and to him it was 
wife and child, parent, friend, all in one, as 
Hector was all in all to his spuuse. He never 
tired of it, and in his more sanguine moods lu; 
looked forward to the time when the world 
would acknowli'dge its merits, and his genius 
would iind : full recognition. Perhaps he was 
right. More than one book wliich seemed 
dead and was dead for contemporary readers 
has had a resurrection when the rivals who 
triumj)hed over it lived only in llu^ tombstone 
memory of antiquaries. — The Guardian jhigel. 


IIOLST, IIi:i:.MANN Eduaud von, a 
Gennaii aiilhoi-, born at Fallen, Livonia, 
Russia, in lb41. He was educated in the 
Universities of I)or})at and lleidelberir. 
in 18GG he settled in St. I'etersburg, but 
on account of a pamphlet on an attempt to 
assassinate the Emperor, published -while 
he was travelling abroad, was forbidden to 
return to Russia. In 18(10 he went to 
America, wlicre he remained until he was 
api)ointed Professor of History in Stras- 
burg University, in 1872. Two yeai's later 
he was given the chair of Modern History 
at P^reiburg. He afterwards revisited the 
U^nited States, and delivered a course of 
lectures at the Johns Hopkins University. 
He is the author of Vcrfassum/ imd 
Demokratie der vereinigten Staaten von 
AmeriJca (1873-78), translated under the 
title of The Const Uutional and Political 
History of the United States, 1 750-1 S;):'), a 
Life of John C. Calhoun 0^S'2), and The 
Constitutional Law of the United States of 
America (1887.) While in America he 
was one of the editors of the Deutsch- 


Turgot and Choisoul had verj^ early recognized 
that the separation of tlie colonies from the 
mother country was only a question of time ; 
and this irrespective of the principles wliicli 
miglit guide the colonial policy of England. 
Tlie narrow and ungenerous conduct wliicii 
Parliann-nt ohservn'd towards the colonies in 
every respect, brought about the decisive crisis 
long before the natural course of tilings and 
the diversity of ijiterests growing out of this 
had made the breach an inevitable necessity. 

To this circumstance it is to be ascribed that 
the colonists were satisiied that an amicable 


solution would be found to the questions debated 
between them and the mother country, long 
after England had given the most unambiguous 
proof that she would not, on any consideration, 
yield the principle in issue. A few zealots like 
John Adams harbored, during the English- 
French colonial war, a transitory wish that the 
guardianship of England should cease forever. 
But shortly after the conclusion of peace, there 
was not one to be found who would not have 
" rejoiced in the name of Great Britain." 

It was long before the ill-will, which the 
systematic disregard by Parliament of the 
rights of the colonists had excited, triumphed 
over this feeling. Even in August and Sep- 
tember, 1775, that is, half a year after the 
battle of Lexington, so strong was the Anglo- 
Saxon spirit of conservatism and loyalty among 
the colonists, that the few extremists who 
dared to s})eak of a violent disruption of all 
bonds entailed chastisement upon tliemselves, 
and were universally censured. But the eyes of 
the colonists had been for some time so far 
opened that they hoped to make an impression 
on Parliament and the King only by the most 
energetic measures. They considered the situ- 
ation serious enough to warrant and demand 
that they should be prepared fi>r any contin- 
gency. Both of these things could evidently 
be accomplished in the right way, and with tlio 
requisite energy, only on condition that tliey 
should act witli tlieir united strengtii. 

The dilliculties in the way of tliis, however, 
wei'e not insignificant. The thirteen colonies 
liad been founded in very difiVrent times 
and under very dift'erent circumstances. Their 
wliole course of development, their political in- 
stitutions, their religious views and so<"ial rela- 
tions, Wi'YO so divergent, tlu' one fnnn the other, 
tliat it was easy to hnd mmc juiints of dilt'cr- 
encc l)etw(>en tliem tlian of siniilaiity and com- 
jiarison. llcsidi's, commercial intercourse })e- 
Iwfcn llic <iist:int colonies, in conseipuuicci of 


tlio great extent of llicir territory, the .scanti- 
ness of tile jiupulatiiin, and tlie poor means 
of transportation at the time, was s<» sliglit that 
the simihirity of tliouglit and feeling wliieli can 
lie tlie result only of a constant anil thriving 
trade was wanting. 

The solidarity of interests, and wJiat was of 
greater importance at the time, the clear per- 
ception that a solidarity of interests existed, 
was therefore based mainly on the geographical 
situation of the colonies. Separated hy the 
ocean, not only from the mother country, but 
from the rest of the civilized world, and placed 
upon a continent of yet unmeasured bounds, on 
which nature had lavished every gift, it was 
imj)ossil>le that the thought should not come to 
them, that tliey were, indeed, called ui)on to 
found a '• new world." Tht'y were not at first 
wholly conscious of this, lint a powerful exter- 
nal shock made it soon ap]>areiit liow widely 
and deeply thi.s thought hud sliot its roots. 
They could iu)t fail to have conlidenci' in their 
own strength. Circumstances had long been 
teaching them to act on the princijile, " Help 
thyself." lU'sidcs, experience had sIkjwii 
them, long ^-ears before, that — even leaving the 
re|)eated attacks on their rights out of .the 
question — the leading-strings by which the 
mother countr}'' sought to guide their steps ob- 
structed rather than heljyed their develo[iment, 
and this in matters which atfected all the colo- 
nies alike. 

Hence, from the very beginning, they con- 
sidered the struggle their common cause. And 
even if the usuri)ations of Parliament made 
themselves felt in some parts of the country 
much more severely than in others, the princi- 
j)le involved interested all to an equal extent. 

Massachusetts recommended, in 1774, the 
coming together of a General Congress, and on 
September 4, of the same year, '•' the delegates, 
nominated by the good people of these colonies," 
met in Philadelphia. 



Tims, long before the colonies thought of sep- 
aration from the mother country, there was 
formed a revolutionary body, which virtually 
exercised sovereign power. How far the 
authority of this first Congress extended, ac- 
cording to the instructions of the delegates, it 
is impossible to determine with certainty at 
this distance of time. But it is probable 
that the original intention Avas that it 
should consult as to the ways and means best 
calculated to remove the grievances and to guar- 
antee the rights and liberties of the colonies, 
and should propose to the latter a series of re- 
solutions, furthering these objects. But the 
force of circumstances at the time compelled it 
to act and order immediately, and the people, by 
a consistent following of its ordex'S, approved 
this transcending of their written instructions. 
The Congress was therefore not only a revolu- 
tionary bod)' from its origin, but its acts as- 
sumed a thoroughly revolutionary character. 
The people, also, by recognizing its authority, 
placed themselves on a revolutionary footing, 
and did so not as belonging to the several colo- 
nies, but as a moral person ; for to the extent 
that Congress assumed power to itself, and made 
bold to adopt measures national in their nature, 
to that extent the colonists declared themselves 
I)repared henceforth to constitute one peoj)le, 
inasmuch as the measures taken by Congress 
could be translated from words into deeds only 
with the consent of the people. 

This state of affairs essentially conlinucd up 
to IMarch 1, 1781. Until tliat time, that is, 
until the ailoption of the articles of confedera- 
tion by all the (States, Congress, continued a re- 
volutionary body, which was recognized by all 
the colonies as dejure and de facto tlie national 
government, and which as such came in contact 
with fortiign powers and entered into engage- 
ments, tlie binding forc(! of which on the whole 
people has never been c:tlled in question. The 
iiidividnal colonies, on the otlit-r hand, ronsider- 



ed themselves, up to tlie time of tlic ])ccl;ira- 
tion of Independence, as legally dependent uj)- 
on England and did not take a single step 
which could have placed them before the 
mother country or the world in the light of de 
facto sovereign States. They remained colon- 
ies until the representatives of the United 
States " in the name of the good people 
of these colonies" solemnly declared "these 
united colonies " to he "free and ind('])endent 
States." The transformation of the cohniies in- 
to " States " was, therefore, not the result of the 
indei>eiKlent action of the individual colonies. 
It was accomplislu'd through the '"representa- 
tives of the United States ; that is, through the 
revolutionary Congress, in the name of the 
whole people. The thirteen colonies did not, 
as thirteen separate and mutually independent 
commonwealths, enter into a compact to sever 
the bonds which connected them with their 
common mother country, and at the same time 
to proclaim the act in a common manifesto to 
the world ; but the "one peoi)le " of the united 
colonies dissolved that political connection with 
the English nation, and proclaimed themselves 
resolved, lienceforth, to constitute the one per- 
fectly independent ])eople of the United States. 
The Declaration of Independence did not create 
thirteen sovereign States, but the representatives 
of the people declared that the former English 
colonies, under the name which they had as- 
sumed of the United States of America, became 
from the fourth day of July, 1776, a sovereign 
state and a member of the family of nations re- 
cognized by the law of nations ; and, further, 
that the people would su2)port thi'ir representa- 
tives with their blood and treasure, in their en- 
deavor to make this declaration a universally 
recognized fact. — 7'ransl. of Johx J. Lalor 
and Alfkkd B. Masox. 


HOLTY, LuDWiG Heinrich Chris- 
TOPH, a German poet, born in 1748 ; tliecl 
in 1776. His father, a pastor in Mariensee, 
taught him Hebrew, Latin, and French, 
He studied theology at Gottingen, and 
gave his leisure to the English and Italian 
poets. In 1772 he joined Biirger, Midler, 
Voss, and others in founding the " Hain- 
bund," a poetical brotherliood. For two 
years he supported himself by teaching 
and translating. His failing health re- 
ceived a shock, it is said, from a disap- 
pointment in love. He died of consump- 
tion in his twenty-eighth year. His poems 
were collected and published after his 


Summer ; joys are o'er ! 

Plowerts bloom no more ; 
Wintry winds are sweeping : 
Through the .sii(nv-(h-ifts peeping, 

Cheerful evergreen 

Karely now is seen. 

Kow no plumed throng 

Charms tlu^ woods witli song j 
Ice-bound trees are glittering ; 
Merry snow-birds, twittering, 

Fondly strive to cheer 

Scenes so cold and drear. 

Winter, still I see 

Merry charms in thee ; 
Love thy chilly greeting ; 
Snow-storms fiercely beating, 

And the dear delights 

Of the long, long nights. — 

Trand.ofC. T. BroOKS. 

The snow melts fast, 
!May comes at last, 


!No\v slioots each spray 
lA>rtli l)l(>ss(iins gay, 
Till' warliliiij^ bird 
Around is licard. 

Come, twine a wreath, 
And on tile heath 
The dance i)rej)are, 
Ye maidens fair ! 
Come, twine a wreath, 
])ance on the heath ! 

Who can foretell 
The tolling bell. 
When we with May 
No more shall play ? 
Canst thou foretell 
The coming knell ? 

Rejoice, rejoice ! 
To speak his voice 
Who gave us birth 
^or joy on earth. 
God gives us time, 
Knjoy its prime. 

IVansl. of A. I^askkrville. 

Sickles sound ; 
On the ground 
Fast the ripe ears fall, 
Ever}^ maiden's bonnet 
Has blue blossoms on it ; 
Joy is over all. 

Sickles ring. 
Maidens sing 
To the sickle's sound ; 
Till the moon is beaming. 
And the stubble gleaming, 
Harvest songs go round. 

All are springing, 
All are singing, 
Every lisping thing. 
Man and master meet; 


From one disla tliey eat ; 
Each is now a king. 

Hans and Michael 
Whet the sickle, 
Piping merrily, 
Now they mow ; each maiden 
Soon with sheaves is laden, 
Busy as a bee. 

!Now the blisses, 
And the kisses ! 
Now the wit doth flow 
Till the beer is out ; 

On, with song and shout, 
Home they go, 3-0 ho ! 

Transl. ofG. T. Brooks 



HOME, John, a Scottish dramatic poet, 
bom ill lll'l; died in 1808. He was edu- 
cated at tlie gi-aiiiinar-sch()(il of Leith, ids 
native town, and at tlie Uuiveisity of 
Ediiiburgli, where he graduated in 1742. 
In 174;") he was licensed by the Presbytery 
of Ediu])urgh, served in the army against 
tlic Pretender, was taken prisoner at Fal- 
kirk, and was con lined in the castle of 
Doune, whence he soon esca})ed. The 
next year he succeeded Blair, the author 
of The Grave, in the parish of Athelstane- 
ford. His ministerial duties did not inter- 
fere with his devotion to dramatic poetry. 
Having conij)leted the Tragedy of A</is, 
in 174U, he offered it to (rarrick, who de- 
clined it. Six years later he went again 
to London with the tragedy of Douglas, 
which Garrick also declined, as totally un- 
suitable for the stage. It met with an en- 
thusiastic reception in Edinburgh, where it 
was performed in 1756 ; but its production 
by a minister so scandalized the Presb}'- 
tery, that Home resigned his living, to 
protect himself from dismissal. In 1758 
J^ord Pute made him his private secretary, 
and three yeais later obtained for him a 
pension of £800. The Siege of Aquilcia, 
produced by Home in 1760, was put upon 
the stage, with Garrick as the principal 
character. Tliree other tragedies, the 
Fatal D'iHcoverii (1769), Alonzo (1773), 
and Alfred (1778), were represented, but 
the last was coolly received. In 1763 he 
had been appointed to the sinecure office 
of Conservator of Scots Privileges at 
Campvere, New Zealand. After the fail- 
ure of Alfred, Home wrote no more for 
the stage. In 1802 he published a Uhfory 
of the Rebellion of 1745. He wrote some 


smaller poems, among thein Tlie Fate of 
Coisar, Verses upon Inverary^ and several 


[Prisoner — Lady Randolph — Anna, her mnid.] 
Ladxj Hnndolph. — Account fur these ; thine 
own they cannot be. 
For these, I say: be steadfast to tlie triitli ; 
Detected falseliood is most certain deatli. 

\^Anna removes the servcmts and ret urns. '\ 
Vrisoner. — Ah^s ! I am sore beset ; let never 
For sake of lucre, sin against his soul ! 
Eternal justice is in this most just ! 
I, guiltless now, must former guilt reveal. 

Jjady a. — Anna, hear ! — Once more I 
charge tliee speak 
The truth direct ; for these to me foretell 
Andc-ertify a. ])art of thy narratimi ; 
With whicli, if tlie remainder tallies not, 
An instant and a dreadful death abides tliee. 

Pris. — Then, thus adjured, I'll speak to you 
as just 
As if you were the minister of heaven, 
Sent down to search the secret sins of men. 
Some eighteen years ago, I rented land 
Of brave Sir ^lalcolm, then ]>alarmo"s lord; 
liut falling to decay, his servants seized 
All that I had, and then turiu'd me and mine — 
Four helpless infants and their weeping 

mother — 
()ut to the mercy of the winter winds. 
A little hovel by the river's side 
Iveceived us : there hard lal)or, and the skill 
In fishing, which was formerly my sport, 
Supported life. Whilst thus we poorly lived, 
( )ne stormy night, as 1 remember well, 
The wind and rain beat liard upon our roof; 
TJed came the river down, and loud and oft 
The angry s))irit of the water .shrieked. 
At the di-ad hour of night was heard the cry 
Of one iu jeopardy. I rose, and ran 


To wliore tlic circling ctldy of a poo], 
liciieutli tile ford, used oft to bring within 
^ly reach whatever jloatiiig thing the stream 
Jlad cauglit. The voice way ceased ; the jxjr. 

son lost : 
]iut looking sad and earnest on tlie waters, 
]>y the moon's light I saw, whirled round and 

A basket ; soon I drew it to the bank, 
And nestled curious there an infant lay. 
I^ady R. — Was he alive ? 
Pris. — He was. 

Lady It. — Inhuman that thou art ! 
How couldst thou kill what waves and tem- 
pests spared '/ 
Pris. — I was not so inhuman. 
Lddy R. — Didst thou not ? 
Ainui. — ]\Iy noble mistress, you are moved 
too nnich : 
This man has not the aspect of stern murder; 
Let him go on, and you, I liope, will hear 
Gortd tidings of your kinsman's long lost child. 
Pris. — The Jieedy man who lias known 
better days. 
One whom distress has spited at (he world. 
Is he whom tem])ting liends would pitch ui)on 
To do such deeds as make the prosperous men 
Lift up their hands, and wonder who could do 

them ? 
And sucli a man was I ; a man declined, 
AVho saw no end oi black adversity; 
Yet, for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not 
Have touched that infant with a hand of harm. 
Lady R. — Ha ! dost thou say so ? Then 

perhaps he lives ? 
Pris. — Xot many days ago he was alive. 
Lady R.—() Gud of heaven ! Did he then 

die so lately ? 
Pris. — I did not say he died ; I liope lie 
Not many days ago these eyes beheld 
Him, flourishing in youth, and health, and 

18 *73 


Ijudy H. — Wliere is lie now ? 

J^ris. — Alas ! I It now not where. 

Zadi/ B. — fate ! I fear tliee still. Thou 

riddler, speak 
Direct and clear, else I will search thy soul. 
Amia. — Permit me, ever honored ! keen im- 
Though hard to he restrained, defeats itself. — 
Pursue thy story with a faithful tongue. 
To the last hour that thou didst keep the child. 
PHs. — Fear not my faith, though I must 

speak my shame. 
Within the cradle where the infant lay 
"Was stowed a mighty store of gold and jewels ; 
Tempted by which we did resolve to hide, 
Prom all the world, this wonderful event, 
And like a peasant breed the noble child, 
That none might mark the change of our estate. 
AVe left the country, travelled to the north, 
Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought 

Our secret wealth. P>ut God's all-seeing eye 
]>eheld our avarice, and smote us sore; 
For one by one all our own children died, 
And he, the strangei-, sole remained the heir 
Of what indeed was his. Pain then would 1, 
Who with a father's fondness loved the boy, 
Have trusted him, now in the dawn of youth. 
With his own secret ; b>it my anxious wife. 
Foreboding evil, never would consent. 
Meanwhile the stripling grew in years and 

beauty ; 
And, as we oft observed, he bore himself 
Not as the offspring of our cottage blood. 
For nature will break out : mild with the mild^ 
Put with the froward he was iierce as iirc, 
Aiul night and day he talked of war and arms. 
T set myself against his warlike IxMit ; 
P>ut all ill vain ; for when a desperate band . 

( 'f robbers fmm the savage mountains came 

L^ifhj R. — Eternal Providence ! What \^ 

thy name ? 
PrI.'i. — My name is Norval ; and m}' nanu^ 

he bears. 


JOHN" HOME.— r, 

Lady R. — 'Tis lie, 'tis lie himself! Tt is iny 
son ! 

sovereign mercy ! 'Twas my cliilil I saw ! 
No wonder, Anna, that my hosom hiirufd. 

Anna. — Just are your transports : ne'er was 
woman's heart 
Proved* with such lierce extremes. High-fated 

dame ! 
But yet remember that you are beheld 
By servile eyes ; your gestures may be seen, 
Impassioned, strange; perhaps your words o'er- 
IahIxj It. — Well dost thou counsel, Anna; 
Heaven bestow 
On me that wisdom which my state requires ! 
Anna. — The moments of deliberation pass, 
And soon you must resolve. This useful man 
l^fust be dismissed in safety, ere my lord 
Shall with Ills brave deliverer return. 

J^ris. — If I, amidst astonishment and fear 
Have of your words and gestures rightly 

Thou art the daughter of my ancient master ; 
The child I rescued from the flood is thine. 
Lady It. — With thee dissimulation now 
were vain. 

1 am indeed the daiighter of Sir Mah^olm ; 
The child thou rescuedst from the flood is mine. 

I^ris. — Blest be the hour that made me a 

poor man 

My poverty liath saved my master's house. 
Lady It. — Thy words surprise me ; sure thou 

dost not feign ! 
The tear stands in thine eye : such love from 

Sir Malcolm's house deserve not, if aright 
Thou told'st the story of thy own distress. 
I^ris. — Sir ^lalcolm of our barons was the 

flower ; 
The fastest friend, the best, the kindest master; 
P)Ut ah ! he knew not of my sad estate, 
After that battle, where his gallant son. 
Your own brave brother, fell, the good old 




Grew desperate and reckless of the world ; 
And never, as he erst was wont, went forth 
To overlook the conduct of his servants. 
By them I was thrust out, and them I blame ; 
May Heaven so judge me as I judged my 

And God so love me as I love his race !' 

Lady 11. — His race shall yet reward thee. 
On thy faith 
Depends the fate of thy loved master's house. 
Rememberest thou a little lonely hut, 
That like a hoi}' hermitage appears 
Among the clift's of Carron ? 

Pris. — I remember 
The cottage of the cliffs. 

Lady li. — 'Tis that I mean : 
There dwells a man of venerable age, 
Who in my fathers service spent his youth: 
Tell him 1 sent thee, and with him remain, 
Till I shall call upon thee to declare 
Before the king and nobles what thou now 
To me hast told. No more but this, and thou 
Shalt live in ht)nor all thy future days ; 
Thy son so long shalt call thee father still. 
And all the land shall bless the man who saved 
The son of Douglas, and Sir Malcolm's heir. 
[ Young Norind in hrouyht in and questioned 
by Lady liandolph.'] 

N^orval. — My name is Norval : on the 
Grami)ian hills 
My father feeds his flocks ; a frugal swain, 
Whose constant cares were to increase his store, 
And keep his only son, myself, at home. 
For I had heard of battles, and I longed 
To follow in the iield some warlike lord: 
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied. 
This moon which rose last night, round as my 

Had not yet fdled her horns, when, by her 

A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills, 
lluslied like a torrejit down uj)on the vale, 
Swecjting our Hocks and herds. The shepherda 



JOHN" nOME.— 7 

Tor safety and for succor. I alone, 

"With bciuUd l)i)\v, and quiver full of arrows, 

Hoveri'd about tlie enemy and marked 

Tlio road he took, then hastened to my friends, 

Whom, witli a troop of fifty chosen men, 

I met advancin<^^ The pursuit I led, 

Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumbered foe. 

We fought and conquered. Ere a sword was 

An arrow from my bowliad pierced their chief, 
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear. 
Returniii<T home in triumj)h, I disdained 
The slicplierd's slothful life ; and having heard 
That our good king had summoned his Ixdd 

' peers 
To lead their warriors to the Carron side, 
I left my father's house, and took with me 
A chosen servant to conduct my steps — 
Yon trembling coward, wIkj fors(»ok his master. 
Journeying with this intent, I passed these 

And T[(\aven-directed, came this day to do 
The happy deed that gilds my humble name. 


HOMER.— 1 

HOMER ( G-r. Homerds)^ a Greek poet, 
the accredited author of the Iliad and the 
Odysseif. It has been not iinplausibl}- 
argued tliat there was actually no such in- 
dividual, but that both poems which bear 
his name were composed at periods widely 
apart, and by many different persons. 
Waiving this question, and assuming- that 
these poems were the work of an individual 
Homer, the period at wliich he lived is al- 
together uncertain. Ancient writers place 
him anywhere between the twelfth and 
the seventh century before our era. Hero- 
dotus supposed him to have lived four 
hundred years before his time — that is, 
about 850 b. c. Seven or more Grecian 
cities claimed the honor of being his birth- 
place. The account which appears best 
entitled to credence, is that he was born 
near Smyrna, on the bank of the river 
Meles (whence he is often styled 3Ielesi- 
ffenes} ; that his youth and early manhood 
were passed on the Island of Chios (the 
modern Scio) ; that he traveled from place 
to ])lace, reciting his poems wherever he 
could iind an audience; and that at some 
period, probably after he hadreacliod man- 
lioud, lie became blind. An okl scholiast 
suggests that Homcros was not his actual 
name, but was a designation, being merely 
ho-me-ordn, "who does not see." There 
are extant two lives of Homer, ascribed 
respectively to Hi-rodotus and I'lutareli ; 
but theie is no valid reason for believing 
them genuine. 

Hesides tlie Iliad and the OdyKs^ey there 
are extant otlier jioems which have been 
attrilmled ti> llomci-. These are several 
Ifynntx to vaiiotis gods, and the liafraidiO' 
inyonuicliia ( •' Frog-aiid-iMice-Fight " ) a 

HOMER.— 2 

mock-heroic poem, and the Mnr<il(i'x, a 
satire. The Iliad and the Odi/saei/ have 
been translated into Englisli verse, and in 
various nieti-es, by many persons. The 
most noticeable of tliese versions are those 
of Chapman (159(3), Pope (1715), Cow- 
per (1791), Munford (1816), Worsley 
(1861), Lord Derby (1865), Merivale 
(1869), and Bryant (1870.) Buckk^y's Ut- 
eral prose translation has a special value 
of its own, although a prose version of a 
poem must always be inadequate. 

The Iliad, as we now have it, consists of 
twenty-four Rhapsodies or " Jiooks," con- 
taining in all some 16,000 lines. The 
action of the poem covers a period of 
about fifty days, near the close of the ten 
years' siege of Ilium, or Troy, by a Gre- 
cian host united under the chief command 
of Agamemnon, " King of Men." Aga- 
memnon has made a captive of Chryseis, 
dauglitcr of the priest of Apollo. The 
Sun-god, enraged at this outrage, comes 
down in wrath from Olympus, and- assails 
the Grecian camp. 


Along Olympus's heiglits he passed, his heart 
Bursting with wrath ; beliiud his shoulders liung 
His bow and ample quiver ; at his back 
Battled the fateful arrows as lie moved. 
Like the uight^cloud he passed, and from afar 
He bent against the sliips and shed the bolt, 
And fierce and deadly twanged the silver bow. 
First on tlie mules and dogs, on man the last, 
Was poured the arrowy storm, and through tlie 

camp [fires. 

Constant and numerous blazed the funeral- 
Trand. o/'Lord Derby. 
Calchas, the seer, after much urgency, 
makes known the cause of the wrath of 

HOMER.— 3 

Apollo, and announces that it can be 
turned aside only by tlie restitution of 
Ciiryseis to her father. The Grecian chiefs, 
foremost among whom is Achilles, demand 
that Agammeaon shall conii)ly. He sulkily 
consents to do this ; but declares that he 
will indemnify himself by taking posses- 
sion of the fair Briseis, who has fallen to 
the share of Achilles as a part of his booty 
in a recent marauding expedition. Achil- 
les is roused to fury, and half unsheathes 
his sword to attack Agamemnon ; but Pal- 
las Athen^ (Minerva) who is tln-oiighont 
the Iliad the patroness of Achilles, (as she 
afterwards is of Ulysses, in the Oihjui^ey')^ 
stays Ids hand, invisible to all but Achilles, 
who swears, on liis gold-sluddcd sceptre, a 
mighty oath that the Grecians shall rue 
the indignity to which by their assent he 
had been subjected. 


By tliis T swear, when bloeding Gi'cece again 
Sliall call Acliilles, she shall call in vain ; 
Wiit'ii tiushod with slaughter lloctor comes to 

The purpled shore with mountains of the dead, 
Then shalt thou mourn tlie affront they madness 

Forced to deplore, when impotent to save ; 
Then rage, in bitterness of soul, to know 
That thou hast made the bravest Greek tliy foe. 

Transl. of Poi-e. 

Til is " wrath of Peleus's son," is an- 
nounced in the first line of the Iliad, as 
the theme of the poem, and to it every 
scene and incident directly or indirectly 
tends. Achilles withdraws liis Myrmidons 
from the contest, and betakes himself to 
his tent. Agamemnon — now backed by 

the whole Grecian council, demands the 


HOMER.— 4 

surrender of Briseis. Achilles diucs not 
refuse to yield to this pressure. Hut he hurls 
this bitter invective against the wrong- 
doer : 


Well dost thou know that 'twas no feud of 
mine [in arms 

With Troy's brave sons, tliat brought ino liere 
They never did me wrong ; they never drove 
My cattle or my horses; they never sought 
In Phthia's fertile life-sustaining fields 
To waste the crops : for wide between us lay 
The shadowy mountains and the roaring sea. 
With" thee, void of shame ! with theo we 

sailed ; 
For Menelaus and for thee, ingrate ! 
Glory and fame on Trojan crests to win. 

Transl. of IjOud Dkkby. 
('hryseis is sent back, with rich ])resents 
to her island home of Chrysa. Homer's 
description of the voyage is admirably 
rendered by Landor, in the English hexa- 
meters, used also by Chapman, which to 
us seems the one of our metres which best 
reproduce the lines of the original : 


Out were the anchors cast, and the ropes made 
fast to the steerage ; 

Out did the sailors leap on tin; foaming bea(;h 
of the ocean ; 

Out was the hecatomb led for the skilful marks- 
man Apollo ; 

Out Chryseis arose from the ship that sped 
through the waters. 

7Vansl. of Landok. 

Zeus had gone off on a twelve days' visit 
to the "blameless Ethiopians." Upon his 
return a council of the gods is held on 
(Olympus, which gives Homer an oppor- 
tunity to let US into some secrets of the 

HOMER.— 5 

domestic life of the Celestials. "Sil- 
ver-footed Thetis," a special favorite 
of Zeus, and inotlier of Achilles, hegs 
the Thunderer to give a temporary ad- 
vantage to the Trojans, so that the 
Greeks may learn what they have lost by 
wronging Achilles. Zeus promises to do 
so, but Juno must not know anything 
about it ; for she has a spite against the 
Trojans, and he stands in wholesome dread 
of the shrewish tongue of his wife ; although 
she knows that when he has once put his 
foot down she must hold her tongue. But 
Juno has caught sight of Thetis as she is 
going out, and surmises what her errand 
has been. She gives her spouse a piece of 
lier mind, winding up with, " Thou hast 
been i)romising honor to Achilles, 1 trow." 
Zeus puts her down in a brief speech, 
which is thus rendered by Mr. Gladstone, 
who of all translators has here caught the 
tone of Jlomer. Indeed we fancy that if 
ho had seriously set himself to the task of 
translating the liuid^ he would have given 
us a better version than we have. 


Zeus, that rules the clouds of heaven, her ad- 
dressing then : 
" Moon struck ! thou art ever troioing ; never I 

escape thy ken. 
After all it boots thee notliing; leaves thee of 

my heart the less : 
So liast tliou the worser bargain. What if I 

th(i fact confess ? 
It was done because I willed it. Hold they 

]»eace — my word ol)ey ; 
Lest if I come near, and on tliee tliese uncon- 

<|m'r<'d hands I lay, 
All the gods tliat hold Olympus nouglit avail 

thee here today." 

Trand. r*/" Gladstone, 




That is, if slie does not hold her tongue, 
he will box her ears. Teace is at length 
restored ; a feast ensues, with vvhicli ends 
the first Book of the Iliad. Next morning 
the Greeian and Trojan hosts, drawn u{) in 
battle array, prepare for a grand lield-ilay 
on the plain before Troy. But before bat- 
tle is joined, Paris springs out of the Tro- 
jan ranks, and offers to meet in single 
combat any one of the Grecian heroes. 
Menelaus, Ihe husband of tlie faitliless 
Helen, accepts the challenge ; but at sight 
of him Paris slinks back behind the shelter 
of thfe Trojan ranks, and is bitterly re- 
proached for his poltroonry by his valiant 
brotlier. Hector. 

hkctok's Kf:pR0Acn to paris. 
Was it for this, or witli such heart as now, 
O'tT the wide billows witli a cliosen hand 
Thou sailedst, and with violated vow 

Didst ])ring thy fair wife from the Apiau 

Torn from the house of men of Avarlike hand, 
And a great sorrow for thy father's liead, 

Troy town, and all the people of the land, 
By thine inhospitable offense hast bred. 
Thus for the enemy's sport, thine own confusion 

dread ? 
Lo, now thou cowerest, and wilt not ahide 
Fierce Menelaus; — Thou hadst known, I 
Soon of wliat man thou hast theblooniiiig bride ! 
Poor had the profit of tliy harp tlien been. 
Vain A]>lir()dito's gifts, tliy hair, tliy mien. 
He mangling in the dust thy fallen l)r<)W. 

l>ut there is no wrong to the Trojans keen. 
And they are lambs in spirit ; or else hadst 

Worn, for thine evil work, a cloak of stone ere 

TransL of Woksley. 


HOMER.— 7 

Paris replies that it is not his fault that 
he is so fascinating; but, however, he is 
not a bit afraid. Let regular lists be pitched 
in sight of both armies, and lie will meet 
Menelaus in sight of both hosts, and 
Helen shall be the prize of the victor. 
Menelaus eagerly accepts the proffer. 
Helen, radiant in her matchless beaut}-, 
leaves her embroidery, and follows King 
Priam and liis counsellors to the city ram- 
pjirts, where she can overlook the combat, 
of which she is to be the prize. 


They reached the Scspan towers, 
Where Priam sat, to see the iight, with all his 

counsellors : 
All grave old men ; and soldiers they had been, 

but for age 
Now left the wars; yet counsellors they were 

exceeding sage. 
And as in well-grown woods, on trees, cold spiny 

Sit chirping and send voices out, that scarce can 

pierce our ears 
For softness, and their weak faint sounds ; so 

talking on the tower, 
These seniors of the people sate ; who, when they 

saw the power 
Of beauty, in the queen, ascend — even these 

cold-spirited peers, 
Those wise and almost withered men, fouml 

this heat in their years. 
That they forced (through whispering) to say : 

" What man can hlaine 
The Greeks and Trojans to endure for so 

admired a dame. 
So many miseries, and so long ? in her sweet 

coinitenance shine 
Looks lik(i the goddesses. — And yet (though 

never so divine) 
Before W(! boast, unjustly still, of li.r enforced 


HOMER.— 8 

And justly suffer for lier sake, witli all our pro- 

Labor and ruin, let her go ; the profit of our 

Must pass the beauty." — Thus, though these 
could bear so fit a hand 

On their affections, yet, when all their gravest 
powers were used. 

They could not choose but welcome her, and 
rather they accused 

The gods than beauty. 

Transl. of Chapman. 
Priam asks Helen to name to him the 

various Grecian heroes, whom she can 

recognize on the plain below. She describes 

them one by one ; but vainly looks for two 

whom she had hoped to recogni/.c among 

her countrymen. 


^[y own twin brethren, and my mother's sons, 
Castor and Pollux: Castor, horseman bold, 
Pollux, unmatched in pugilistic skill ; 
In Lacedannon have they stajed behind V 
Or can it be, in ocean-going ships 
That they have come indeed, but shame to join 
The fight of warriors fearful of the shame 
And deep disgrace that on my name attend ? 
Transl. of Lord Derby. 
Priam is summoned to attend a confer- 
ence midway between the walls of Troy 
and the Grecian camp on the seashore. 
All details are formally agreed upon, and 
duly ratified by sacriiicial rites. Tins 
duello sliall decide the matter, and there 
shall be no more lij^htinf;. The divine 
vengeance is invoked against the party 
which shall violate the armistice. Hector 
on the one side, and Ulysses upon the 
other, prepare the lists. Lots are cast to 
decide which con:ibatant shall have the 

HOMER.— 9 

*" first shot." Paris wins, and his javelin 
strikes the shield of ISIenelaus fair in the 
centre, but the tough bull's-hide is not 
penetrated. It is now the turn of Mene- 
laus. His heavy javelin goes straight 
through shield, breast-plate, and linen vest, 
but fails even to graze the body of Paris. 
Menelaus, sword in hand, rushes upon his 
eneni}', strikes a downright blow upon his 
helmet, but the blade is shivered to frag- 
ments, and Paris is unharmed. Mene- 
laus rushes upon Paris, seizes him by 
the horsehair crest, and drags him by main 
force towards the Grecian lines. But 
Venus comes to the rescue of her favorite. 
At her touch the chin-strap gives way, 
leaving only the empty helmet in the hands 
of Menelaus. He flings this to the ground, 
and dashes in chase of Paris, even among 
the Trojan ranks. Not a man there would 
turn hand to save Paris, for " they all 
hated him like black Death." But Mene- 
laus can nowhere light upon Paris ; for 
Venus has wrapt a cloud of mist around 
him, under cover of which she carries him 
off, and deposits him uidiainied in the 
chamber of Helen, who gives him a most 
unkindly reception. 


]^>ack fnmi tlic hutth- V would tliou there liadst 

lienoatli a warrior's arm wliom once 1 called 
]\Iy Imshaiid ! Vainly didst tliou boast ero 

wliilc; [spear, 

TliiiH! arm, tliy dauntless eouratje, and thy 
The warlike Menelaus should subdue! 
(Jo now a<;ain, and ehallt'iige to the fight 
Tlie warlike; Menelaus. — r>e thou ware ! 
I w;irn tlu'c, pause, ere madly thou presume 
AVith fair-haired Menelaus to contend ! 

Trand. of Ijokd Dkkby. 

HOMER.— 10 

But Paris'sgood looks and ready tongue 
are too mucli for the anger of Helen, and 
they soon become h)vers again. The (ire- 
cians i-iglitfully chiini that the victory is 
theirs, since the Trojan champion has ig- 
nominionsly iled the lists. But the ruUus 
of 01ym[)us again intervene. Zeus taunts 
Juno tliat A'^enus has been too much for 
lier and Pallas combined. He is clear, 
liowever, that the victory belongs to Meii- 
elaus ; that Helen sliould be given up to 
the Grecians, who should go home, and the 
long quarrel be over. Juno is enraged that 
Troy- should escape the destruction upon 
which she had set heart. Zeus, for the 
sake of a quiet life, consents that in this 
matter Juno shall have her way; Init ad- 
monishes her that if hereafter any city 
which she loved should fall under his dis- 
pleasure, her interposition should not avail 
to save it. She replies that there are three 
Grecian cities — Argos, Sparta, and My- 
cend, which were especially dear to her; 
but if these should incur his displeasure 
she would not interpose to save them. 

And now the gods — Pallas especially — 
set about the work of inducing the Tro- 
jans to do something wliich shall be a vio- 
lation of the truce with the (xrecians. At 
the instigation of Pallas, the Trojan archer 
Pandarus shoots a treacherous arrow at 
Menelaus, and inflicts a wound which only 
the w%atchful care of Pallas prevents from 
being fatal. The Trojans have already 
broken their agreement, and the Grecians 
resolve to renew the war. 'J'heu ensues 
the first of the battles of which the Iliad 
gives an account. Of this Diomed, the 
son of Tydeus, is the hero ; though gods, 
as well as men, take part in it upon one 


HOMER.— 11 

side or the other. Venus, though by no 
means of a martial character, comes down 
to look out for ^Eueas, her son by ;i mortal 
lover. Diomed overtakes her whiie carry- 
ing ^neas off, and inflicts a slight wound 


Her, searching through the crowd, at length he 

And springing forward, with his pointed spear 
A wound inflicted on her tender hand. 
Piercing th' ambrosial veil, the Graces' work, 
The sharp spear grazed her palm below the 

wrist. [flowed — 

Forth from the wound th' immortal current 
I'ure ichor, life-stream of the blessed gods ; 
They eat no bread, they drink no ruddy wine. 
And bloodless thence and deathless they 

become. [son ; 

The goddess shrieked aloud, and dropped her 
But in liis arms Apollo bore him off 
In a thick cloud enveloped, lest some Greek 
Might pierce his breast, and rob him of his life. 
Loud shouted brave Tydides, as she fled : 
" Daughter of Jove, from battle-field retire ; 
Enough for thee weak women to delude ; 
If war thou seek'st, the lesson thou shalt learn 
Shall cause thee shudder but to hear it 

named." — 
Thus he, but ill at ease, and sorely pained, 
The Goddess fled ; her Iris, swift as wind. 
Caught up, and from the tumult bore away, 
Weeping with pain, her fair skin soiled with 


Transl. o/Lord Derby. 

Diomed, raging through I he fight, en- 
counters Glaucus, a young Lycian chief, 
and struck by his noble bearing, inquires 
liis name and race. Glaucus, with a sad 
smile, replies : 


l>rav«' son of Tydeus, wherefore set thy 


nOMER.— 12 

My race to know ? Tlio <;<Mieraticiiis are 
Ah of the leaves, so also of luaiikiiid. 
As the leaves fall, now withering in tlie 
And others are put forth, and Sprinf^ descends, 

Such on the earth the race of men we find; 
Each in his order a set time attends ; 
One generation rises and another ends — 

Tra/iisl. o/WoRSLEY. 

Tlie battle goes hardly for the Ti-ojaiis. 
Dionied encounters Mars, the god of war, 
wounds him severely in the flank, and 
sends liim howling back to Olympus, 
wliere he gets a severe berating from the 
l)aternal Zeus, Hector at last leaves tiie 
field and goes into the city in order to 
send his mother, Hecuba, to the temple of 
Pallas to beseech the goddess to withdraw 
the terrible Diomed from the field. He 
enters the palace, wliere he finds Paris 
dallying with Helen instead of taking part 
in the fight. He sharply upbraids his 
brother ; but Helen makes a sj)cech full of 
self-abasement, and bewailing the unwor- 
thiness of her paramour. Hector answers 
gently, and goes in search of liis wife, An- 
dromache, whom he finds at the Seaman 
gate, with their infifnt child and his nurse. 
This interview, and, as it proved, the last 
one — between Hector and his wife, is ad- 
mirably rendered by Pope, although the 
concluding lines are better reproduced by 
Lord Derby. 


Tlius having spoke, fh' illustrious chief of Troy 
Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy ; 
The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, 
Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. 
With secret pleasure each fund jjaront smiled, 
And Hector hasted to relieve liis child, 
19 2S9 

HOMER.— 13 

The glltt'rhig terrors from his brow uiihound, 
And phieed the beaming helmet on the ground; 
Then kissed his chihl, and lifting high in air 
Thus to the gods, preferred a fathers prayer : 

" thou, whose glory fills th' etherial throne, 
And all ye deathless powers ! protect my son ! 
Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, 
To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, 
Against his country's foes the war to wage, 
And rise the Hector of the future age ! 
So when triumphant from successful toils, 
Of heroes slain he hears the reeking spoils, 
Whole hosts may hail him with deserved ac- 
claim, [fame ; 
And say — This chief transcends his father's 
While pleased amidst the general shouts of 
Troy, [joy." 
His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with 
He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms, 
Restored the pleasing burthen to her arms. 
Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, 
Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed. 
The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear. 
She mingled with a smile a tender tear. 
The softened chief with kind compassion 

And dried the falling drops, and thus pur- 

Transl. q/*PoPE. 

"For till my day of destiny is come. 
No man may take my life ; and when it comes. 
Nor brave nor coward can escape that day. 
l>ut go thou home, and ply thy household cares. 
The loom and distaff, and aj)point thy maids 
Their several tasks; and leave to men of Troy, 
And chief to me, the toils of war. 

2'ransl. of Loud Deuuy. 

The battle is renewed the next morning, 
and niifflity deeds are done on eaeh side. 
It is a drawji battle, and botli armies acfree 
1() a tiuce in oi-dor to collect and bury 
their dead. The Ci reeks commence erect- 

HOMER.— 14 

ing palisades to protect their fleet against 
any assault by the Trojans. They then 
spend the night in deep carousals. Next 
morning Zeus calls a council of the gods 
on Olympus, llii forbids the gods, one 
and all, to take part in the action of tliat 
day, and descends to Mount Ida, which 
overlooks the })hiin, in order that he may 
survey the lield, and decide on which side 
he will intervene. There he holds up the 
eternal scales in order to weigh the fates 
of the Grecians and Trojans. The Trojan 
scale kicks the beam, and the ultimate fall 
of Troy is fixed. But for this day he will 
aid the Trojans in order that the Grecians 
may be made sensible of the wrong which 
they have done to Achilles. He sends his 
thunderbolts amid the Grecian ranks, and 
throws them into confusion and terror. 
Tiu^y are driven back within their pali- 
sades ; but night }>uts an end to the con- 
test. The triumphant Tiojans bivouac 
upon the lield, ready to renew the assault 
at early dawn. Tennyson has finely 
translated the passage at the close of the 
eighth J5o()k, but his version lacks the 
vigor of tiic old one of C'hapman. 


Tlio winds transferred into the friendly isl<y 

Their suj)i)er's savor; to the which they sat 

And spent all iiiglit in open field; iires round 
ahout tlieni sliined 

As when about the silver moon, when air is 
free from wind, 

And stars shine clear, to whose sweet ])eanis, 
high pros})ects, and tlie hrow 

Of all steep hills and pinnacles, tlirust up them- 
selves for show. 

And even tlie lowly valleys joy to glitter iu 
their sight, 


HOMER.— 15 

When the unmeasured liruiameut bursts to 

disclose her light, 
And all the signs of heaven are seen, that glad 

the shepherd's heart ; 
So many fires disclosed their beams, made by 

the Trojan part 
Before the face of Ilion, and her bright turrets 

A thousand courts of guards kept fires, and 

every guard allow'd 
Viity stout men, by wlioin their horse eat oats, 

and hard white corn. 
And all did ^Yishfully expect the silver-throned 


Transl. of Cii a tm ax. 

The opening of tlie ninth l^ook presents 
the Grecians utterly disheartened within 
their palisades. Agamemnon proposes that 
they sliould all take ship and sail back to 
Greece. All the cliiefs keep silence, ex- 
cept Diomed, who taunts Agamemnon with 
cowardice. They may go home, if they 
will, but he and his comrade, Sihenehis, 
will stay and tight it out alone if need be. 
Then the aged Nestor reminds Agamem- 
non that liis insult to Achilles is the cause 
of their present sad idight; let an embassy 
be sent to liim to (dler apology and ample 
compensation for the wrong which he lias 
suffered. Achilles receives the embassy 
^villl all coiiilesy; but will listen to no 
pn)p(>sid fi)i' accommodation; and besides, 
lie adds, tauntingly, Agamemnon can liave 
no need of his services ; ho has fortilied 
his position Avitli ditch and ])alisade, which, 
after all, may not keep Hector out; al- 
though while lie was in the Held nothing 
of the kind was needed. 

At early dawn tlio Trojans renewed the 
attack. Tlu! (Jrecians, brouglit to bay, 
defend llieniselves slmitly. The account 

HOMER.— 16 

of this battle occupies eight books of the 
Iliad — one-third of the entire poem. Aeliil- 
les, standing on tlic htfty prow of liisship, 
surveys the light, as tliougli its issue was a 
matter in whieh lie had no concern. Sar- 
pedon, a Lycian, reputed to be a son of 
Zeus, shares with Hector the glory of this 
day. The (xrecians are forced back within 
their entrenchments. Sarpedon Inirls an 
enormous stone against the wooden gate, 
whicli gives way. 


Tin's way and Miat tlio severed jiorials ilew 
Before tlie cra.shiiig missile. Dark us ni^lit 
His lowering l)row,great llec-tor sprang within ; 
liright (lashed the brazen armor on Ins breast, 
As througli the gates, two javelins in his liand, 
He sprang. The gods except, no power might 

Tliat onset; blazed his eyes with lurid fire. 
Thou to the Trojans, turning to the throng. 
He called aloud to scale the lofty wall. 
They heard, and straight obeyed; some scaled 

the wall ; [poured ; 

Some througli the strongdmilt gates continuous 
While in confusion irretrievable 
I'led to their ships the panic-stricken Greeks. 
Transl. o/'Lokd Deuhv. 

Neptune, wlio liad been overlooking the 
light from the wooded heights of Samo- 
thrace, hurries to the relief of his frieiuls, 
the Grecians. Assuming the form of C'al- 
chas, tlie seer, lie inspires them with fresli 
courage. Hector's course is staid. The 
Locrian bowmen of Ajax, the son of 
Oileus, pour their arrow-flights into the 
Trojan masses. The fight rages more furi- 
ously than ever. The foremost (uecian 
chiefs — Agamemnon, Ulysses, and Dionied 
r-are disabled. The two Ajaxes, and Ido- 

HOMER.— 17 

medus of Crete, barely maintain the con- 
flict ; but the Grecian intrenchnients have 
been forced, and the light is around the 
ships. If tlie Trojans succeed in burning 
these all is lost. Neptune now heads the 
Grecians in his own proper form. The tide 
of battle is turned. Ajax, the son of Tel- 
amon, fells Hector to the earth with a hnge 
rock, and he is with difficulty saved from 
death or capture, and borne senseless to 
his chariot, while the Trojans are pushed 
out of the Grecian intrenchnients, the en- 
emy in hot pursuit. 

Jupiter has been for hours slumbering 
in the arms of Juno. He awakes just in 
time to discover what has taken place. He 
sends Iris with an imperious command to 
Neptune to quit the tight, under pain of 
his sternest displeasure. The sea-god sul- 
lenly obeys. A[)ollo is now ordered by 
Zeus to go to the aid of the Trojans. He 
restores Hector to his senses and vigor, 
and, heading the Trojans, leads them on 
once more against tlie Grecian ships. The 
galley of Ajax Telamon is assailed by 
J lector in person ; but Ajax stands on the 
lofty prow arnu'd with a pike eleven yaids 
long, Avith wliicli he slays twelve Tiojans, 
who are pressing on, torch in hand, to set 
Are to the vessels. 

Patroclus, the bosom-friend of Achilles, 
has been sitting in his tent watching over 
a wounded friend. He liurri(\s to the tent 
of vVchilles, and begs tliat he may be per- 
mitted to lead the Myrmidons to the aid 
of their liardly-pressed countrymen. Achil- 
les consents, endows Patroclus with liis 
own armor, mounts him in his own chariot, 
charging him, however, to do nothing 
more than save the ships, and not to at 


irOMER.— IS 

tempt to follow tin; Tiojiins into the open 
plain. The Trojans, seeing the well-known 
armor of Achilles, helieve that he is head- 
ing the reinforcements advancing against 
them. Tiiey rusli distractedly out of the 
intrenchments, up to the very gates of 
Troy, pursued hy Patroelus, who has for- 
gotten the parting injunction of Achilles. 
Jlere he is confronted by Apollo, who 
warns him back. Patrochus refusing to 
go, Apollo strikes him down, and despoils 
him of the armor of Achilles. Patroelus tries 
to make good his retreat; but the Trojan 
Euphorbus stabs him in the back, and 
Hector, coming up, runs his spear through 
his body. A tierce tight ensues over the 
body ; but liis comrades, locking shields, 
keep off the enemy, and bear tiie corixse 
towards the ships. In tlie meanwhile the 
charioteer of I'atroelus puts whip to his 
horses, and carries to Achilles the tidings 
of the death of his friend. 


Griof darkened all his powers. With ]u)th his 

hands he rent 
The black mould from the forced earth, and 

poured it on his head, 
Smear'd all his lovely face; his weeds divinely 

All filed and mangled ; and himself he tlirew 

upon the shore ; [and tore 

Lay as laid out for funeral, then tumbled round, 
His gracious curls. His ecstacy he did so far 

That all the ladies won by him and liis now 

slaughtered friend, 
Afflicted strangely for his plight, came shriek- 
ing from the tents, 
And fell about him, beat their breasts, their 

tender lineaments 


HOMER.— 10 

Dissolved witli sorrow. And with them wept 

Nestor's warlike son, 
Fell by him, holding his fair hands, in fear he 

would have done 
His person violence ; his heart extremely 

straitened, burn'd, 
Beat, swelled, and sigh'd as it would burst : 

so terribly he mourn'd. 
That Thetis, sitting in the deeps of her old 

father's seas, heard and lamented. 

Transl. q/' Chapman. 

Thetis now repairs to Vulcan, and in- 
duces him to forge a suit of armor for her 
son, to replace that of wliich Patroclus 
had been des})oiled, and which is now worn 
by Hector. The description of the forging 
of this armor forms one of the most pic- 
turesque scenes of the Iliad. Having re- 
ceived the armor, Achilles sets out for tlie 
tent of Agammenon, and makes proffers 
of reconciliation. 


Great son of Atreus, what hath been the gain 
To thee or me, since heart-consuming strife 
Hath fiercely raged between us — for a girl 
Who, would to heaven had died by Hian's 

Tluit day when from Lyrnessus's captured town 
1 bore her off, so had not many a Greek 
Bitten tlie })loody dust by hostile hands 
Subdued, while 1 in anger stood aloof. 
Great was the gain to Troy ; but Greece, me- 

Will long retain tht^ memory of ourieud. 
Yet pass we that ; and though our hearts be sore, 
Still let us scliool our angry sjtirits down. 
My wratli I liere abjure. 

Transl. <)/' Fioun Dintitv. 

Agamemnon fraidcly admits that he was 
wrong, but lays Ibc, chief blame upon Zeus 
and Fate, who liad juisled liis understand- 


IIOMRR.— 20 

iiig. Everytliiii^- is speedily ;irraiiL;(il for 
giving biiUlu the next morning. ^Vchilles 
dons his new ;u'ni(»r, nionnts liis eluiiiot, 
and shuts i'oilh at the Jieud oi" liis eager 
Myrmidons. Zeus lias now removed Jiis 
prohibition, and given all the gods full 
permission to take part in the battle on 
wjiiehever si'le they pleased. Juno, Nej)- 
tune, Palhis, Mercury, and Vulcan join the 
Grecians; uhile Mars, Apollo, Venus, 
Latona, and Diana take part with the Tro- 
jans. Achilles urges his chariot through 
the Trojan ranks, driving man}' of tiie 
enemy before hiiu into the shallows of the 
river Scamander. Lea[)ing from his chariot 
he wades into the river, slaugiitering every 
one who comes in his way, save twelve 
Trojan youtlis, whom he holds as prisoners 
to be offered up on the funeral pyre of 
Patroclus. Foi- the rest, mercy or respite 
is grantetl to no one. Lycaon, a young 
son of Priam, whom Achilles had before 
known, begs for his life ; he is only a half- 
brother of Hector, and his brother, Poly- 
dorus, has just been slain — surel}'- that 
was enough to satisfy the vengeance of the 
Grecians. Achilles replies that before 
Patroclus was slain he had spared many a 
Trojan ; but henceforth no one should be 
spared — least of all any son of Priam. 


Thou too, my friend, must die — why vainly 

wail ? 
Dead is Patroclus too, thy better far ; 
Me too tliou seest — how stalwart, tall, and fair, 
Of noble sire and goddess-motlier born ; 
Yet I must yield to Death and stubborn Eate, 
Whene'er, at morn or noon or eve, tlie spear 
Or arrow from the bow may reach my life. 
Transl. o/"LoKn Dekby 


HOMER.— 21 

Tlie liver-god rises in his might, wrath- 
ful at seeing his current clioked with 
corpses and stained with blood, and hurls 
liis waters against Achilles, wlio scarcely 
escapes from the torrent ; but Neptune 
and Vulcan come to his aid. Vulcan 
shoots flames that scorch all the banks of 
the Scamander and the Simo'is, burning up 
I he trees and shrubs, and threatening to 
dry up the streams themselves. The river- 
god retires to his banks, leaving Achilles 
free to follow up his victories. The gods 
engage each other. Pallas fells Mars with 
a huge rock ; and strikes down Venus, 
who lias come to his aid ; strong-armed 
Juno gives a fierce l)uffet to Diana, who 
drops her bow, and Hies weeping to Zeus, 
who is qnietly looking on. 

The remnant of the routed Trojans have 
made good their retreat within the city 
walls, all except Hector who remains out- 
side the Sca>an gate, waiting for Achilles 
to come up. lUit at the approach of the 
Grecian lie turns and Hies, followed hard 
by Achilles, who chases him thrice around 
the town in full view of the Trojans who 
crowd the ramparts. Fleet as Hector is, 
Achilles is still fleeter. He overtakes 
Hector, Ijeckoning to his comrades not to 
interfere in any way; for he alone will 
wreak vengeance upon the slayer of Patro- 
cl ns. Zeus is now minded to save Hec- 
tor; but Pallas reminds him of that supremo 
Destiny, to whose decrees even the Ruler 
of Olympus must yield obedience. Ho 
lifts aloft the golden balances, and the 
scale of Hector kicks thi' beam. Even 
tJie King of gods and men cannot now 
save; him. Hector stands at bay ; but be- 
fouc blows aie struck, he lii(!S to engage 

nOMER.— 22 

Achillos in a compact tliat wliichever shall 
full, liis adversary sliall restore the dead 
body of the other to his friends witli all 
due honor. But Achilles fiercely rejects 
the proposition. 


Talk not to me of compacts ; as 'tween men 
And lions no firm concord can exist, 
Nor wolves and lambs in harmony unite, 
l>ut ceaseless enmity between them dwells; 
80 not in friendly terms, nor com})act lixui. 
Can thou and I unite, till one of us 
(ihit witli his blood the mail-chul warrior Mars, 
Mind thee all tliy fence ; belujves tliee now 
To prove a spearman skilled, and warrior brave. 
For thee escape is none ; now by my spear 
Hath I'allas doomed thy death. ]V[y comrade's 

AVHiicli thou hast slu-d, sliall all Ix* now avenged. 
Transl. o/'Louu Dkubv. 

Achilles's spear launched at these words, 
}nisses its mark; that of Hector ohmces 
harmless from the celestial shield, llector, 
having no second spear, rushes, sword in 
liand, upon Achilles, who watching his 
opj)ortunity, thrusts his sharp sjiear 
tiuougli the joint in tlie armor where the 
breast-phite joins tlie gorget. The victor 
brutally assures his dying eneni}' that his 
body shall be consigned to the dogs and the 
vultures. The Grecians now crowd around, 
and plunge their s[)ears into the all but 
dead body. Achilles orders tlic heels of 
Hector to ]je pierced, cords to be run 
througli the lioles and fastened to his 
cliariot ; and so the body is dragged off to 
the ships, and Hung in the dust before the 
bier upon wlueh the corpse of Patroclus 
is lying. That night the shade of Patro- 
clus a])i)ears to the sleeping Achilles, and 
presents his last request. 

HOMEK— 23 


Sleep'st thou, Achilles, mindless of thy friend, 
Neglecting not the living but the dead ? 
Has^-en my funeral rites, that I may pass 
Through Hades's gloomy gates. Ere those be 

The spirits and spectres of departed men 
Drive me far from them, nor allow to cross 
Th' abhorred river ; but forlorn and sad 
I wander through the wide-spread realms of 

And give me now thy hand, whereon to weep ; 
For never more, when laid upon the pyre, 
Shall I return from Hades ; never more. 
Apart from all our comrades, shall we two. 
As friends, sweet counsel taho. For me stern 

Deatli, , 

The common lot of man, has ope'd his mouth. 
Thou too, Achilles, rival of the gods, 
Art destined here beneath the walls of Troy 
To meet thy doom. Yet one thing I must add 
And make, if thou wilt grant it, one request : 
Let not my bones be laid ajjart from thine, 
Achilles, but together, as our youth 
Was spent together in thy father's house. 

Transl. of Lord Derby. 

The preparations for the obsequies of 
Patroclus are speedily concluded. Aga- 
memucjii has already cut down wood for a 
Imge funeral pyre. The corpse is borne 
in long procession and placed upon it. 
Each wariior cuts off long locks of his 
liair, wliich are laid upon the body as an 
offering to the gods bcloAV. Four chariot- 
horses and two houseliold dogs are slain 
U[)on tlic pyre. Tlie twelve Trojan cap- 
tives are slaughtered by Aciliilles witli his 
own hand, and added to the victims. The 
fire is liglitcdand blazes all night, Achilles 
continually j)ouring on libations from a 
g()l(l(^n g(il)1ct. In th(! moining th(! em- 

HOMKR— 24 

"bers are qnciiclKMl with Aviiio, ujid the 
bones of Patioclus iire collected, and iihiced 
in a golden urn to await the near day when 
those of Achilles shall be deposited under 
the same mound. 

The funeral games are now begun, 
lasting twelve days in all. There is a 
chariot-race, in whicli Dioined carries off 
the prize; a brutal boxing-match, in which 
one combatant is felled to the ground, and 
borne off senseless ; a wrestling match be- 
tween Ajax theCireater and Ulysses, Avhich 
is pronounced a drawn game ; a foot-race, 
in which Ulysses is victor, Pallas tripping 
up the heels of Ajax the Lesser who was 
ahead; a fight with spear and shield be- 
tween Diomed and Ajax Telamon, the 
prize being the splendid armor which had 
belonged to Sarpedon, to be awarded to 
the one who drew the first blood ; but the 
chamj)ions grew so furious that they were 
separated, and the prize is divided between 
them; and a contest in archery. The 
games were to have closed by a contest at 
hurling the heavy spear, at which Aga- 
memnon presented himself as a contestant ; 
but Ulysses would not hear of it, handing 
the prize to Agamemnon with the cour- 
teous words, "6 son of Atreus, we know 
that thou dost surpass us all." 

Every morning Achilles mounted his 
chariot, to which was attached the body of 
Hector, which was thrice dragged around 
the mound which had been reared over the 
ashes of Patroclus ; but notwithstanding 
this rough usage tiie body — thanks to the 
care of Venus and Apollo — showed no 
signs of injury or decomposition. On the 
night after the close of the funeral rites, 
the aged Priam, conducted by Mercury, 

HOMER.— 25 

and attended only hy a single herald, 
crept througli the lines of the Grecian 
sentinels, whom Mercury had cast into a 
profound sleep, and made his way to the 
tent of Achilles, and begged for the body 
of Hector. The hot wrath of Acliilles 
had burned itself out. He received the 
old man gently, and not only granted his 
prayer, but ordered that the body should 
be washed, anointed, and clad in costly 
raiment. He lifted it witli his own hands, 
and placed it on a couch. Priam passed 
the night in the tent of tlie man who had 
slain so many of his own sons, and slept for 
the first time since the death of Hector. 
Achilles completed his kindness by grant- 
ing a twelve days' truce, so that Troy 
might bury her dead hero with all right- 
ful honors. The lamentations of Priam 
and Hecuba are duly recorded; but even 
more touching than these is the tribute 
paid by the remorseful Helen. 

iiklkn's tkihutk to hkotok. 
Hector, of all my lnvtliron dearest thou ! 
True, godlike Paris elaims me as his wife, 
Who bore me hither: would I then Iiad died! 
P>ut twentjr years have passed since here I came, 
And left my native land ; yet ne'er from thee 
I heard one scornful, one degrading word ; 
And when fmm others I have home reproach — 
'I'liy brothers, sisters, or thy brother's wives. 
Or mother (for thy sire was ever kind 
Even as a father) — thou hast cliecked them still 
With tender feeling and with gentle words. 
I^'or thee I weej), and for myself no less; 
For through the breadth of 'J'roy none luve me 

None kindly look on me, but all abhor. 

TriDtsl. ^»/"]j()Hr> Dkkijv, 

With tin; funeral rites of Hector, the 

HOMER. -26 

Hiad — wliicli mi^dil moro properly liave 
been called tlic "'Acliilliad" comes to a 
proper close. Shortly after the expira- 
tion of the truce, Ar-hilles was shiiii by 
an arrow shot by Paris; and a little later 
Ilium was taken through a slialagcm, the 
work of Ulysses, sacked and laid in ashes; 
its very site being uncertain for well-nigh 
a huiulred generations, until our own days 
it was identilied by Sehlienian. 

The Odt/s8('ij purports to be a narrative 
of the adventures of Odysseus (whose 
name has been softened b}' the Latins into 
" Ulysses"') during his ten years' wander- 
ings after the destruction of Troy, until he 
linally gets back to liis native Ithaca. 
Like the Iliad it consists of twenty -four 
Looks. The narrative properly begins in 
the seventh year after the fall of Troy. 
The events of the })receding years after 
that time being related by Ulysses himself 
at one time or ajiother. 

The Odyssey (jpens with a a council of 
the gods held on Olympus. Pallas re^ninds 
Zeus of tlie hard fati; of Ulysses, who has 
for seven years been detained by the nymph 
Calypso in her enchanted island. It is 
decided that Mercury shall proceed to tlie 
island to announce to Ulysses that the 
peiiod of his detention by Calypso is draw- 
ing to a close; while Pallas shall go to 
Ithaca in order to inspire Telemachus, the 
son of Ulysses, now growing into manhood, 
with a resolve to rid his mother, Penelope, 
of a swarm of suitors who have (juartered 
themselves in her palace, demanding that 
she shall nuirry one of them in jjlace of 
her husband, Ulysses, who is presumed to 
be dead, nothing having been heard of him 

HOMER.— 27 

for seven years and more ; though Penelope 
cherishes the belief tliat lie still lives, and 
will in time get back tc Ithaca. 


So ending, underneath her feet she bound 

Her faery sandals of amhrosial gold, 
Which o'er the waters and the solid ground 

Swifter than wind have borne hor from of old ; 

Then on the iron-jjointed spear laid hold. 
Heavy and tall, wherewith she smites the brood 

Of heroes till her anger waxes cold ; 
Then from Olympus swept in eager mood, 
And with the island-people in the court she 

Fast by the threshold of the outer gate 
Of brave Ulysses; in her hand she bore 

The iron-plated spear. Iieavy and great. 

And waiting as a guest-friend at the door, 
Of JNIentes, Taphiau chief, the likeness, wore ; 

There found the suitors, who beguiled with i)lay 
The hours, and sat the j)alace-gates before 

On liides of oxen which themselves did slay : 

Haughty of mien they sat, and girt with proud 

lV((/tsL of WOHSLEY. 

Here ensue various scenes of insolence 
on the part of the unruly suitors. At 
length Telemachus asks the supposed 
Mentes abont the fate of his father. Of 
tliis lie professes to know nothing; but lie 
believes tiiat Ulysses is still alive ; per- 
liajts some of his old connades — Nestor of 
Pylos, or Alencdaus cd' Sparta — could fur- 
nish some information, it is linally de- 
cided that Telemachus should lit out a 
vessel, and go in searcii ol' information 
abont Ills father. Penelope had })Ut (d'f 
the suitors l)y declaring that she could not 
think of marrying until .slie liad comjdctcd 
the weaving of a splendid web Ayliich should 

IIOMEK.— 28 

serve as a windiiig-slieet for Laertes, the 
ag<3d father of Ulysses, whose end roiild 
not l>e far distant. She and lier hand- 
maidens weave diligently all the day, bnt 
the web does not grow any longer, for 
each Jiight they unravel what they had 
woven during the day. 


Matchless skill. 
To woavothat splendid web ; sagacious thought, 
And shrewdness such as never fame ascribed 
To any beauteous Greek of ancient days — 
Tyro, ]Vl3'^cene, or Alcemene loved 
Of Jove himself — all whom the accomplished 

Transcends in knowledge. 

Transl. of Cowpbr. 

Teleiiiachiis, aided by Pallas, who now 
appears in the form of Mentor, a wise old 
man, who had been left as his guardian by- 
Ulysses when he sailed for Troy, sets out 
on his v(jyage. 


Loud and clear 
Sang the bluff zephyr o'er the wine-dark mere 
Behind them : by Athene's best he blew. 
Telemacbus his comrades on did cheer 
To set the tackling. With good hearts the crew 
Heard him, and all tilings ranged in goodly 

order true. 
The olive mast, planted with care, they bind 
With ropes, the white sails stretch on twisted 
And brace the mainsail to the bellying wind. 
Loudly the keel rushed through the seething 

Soon as the good ship's gear was all applied 
Tboy ranged both bowls crovvjied with dark 
wine, and poured 
To gods who everlastingly abide, 
20 3°s 

HOMER.— 20 

Most to tlie stern-eyed child of heaven's great 

All night the shiji clave onward till the J)awii 


Transl. o/" Wouslky. 

Tliey soon reached Pvlos, the stronghold 
of the aged Nestor, Avho received tliem 
hospitably. He tells them many tales of 
his old comrades at the siege of Troy. 
Among the rest, he narrates the murder of 
Agamemnon, who had been assassinated 
by uEgisthus, wlio dnring his absence had 
debauclied liis wife Cly temnestra, the sister 
of Helen. 


]\lany the warm tears from his e3'elids shed, 
When through the mist of his long-hoped 
He saw the lovely land before him spread. 
Him from high watch-tower marked the 

watchman wight 
Set b}' yEgisthus to watch day and night; 
Two talents of pure gold his promised hire. 
Twelve months he watched, lest the Avenger 
Unheeded, and remenibcr his old fire ; 
Then to his lord made haste to show the tid- 
ings dire. 
Forthwith .■Egisthus, shaping a dark snare, 

Score of his bravest chose, and ambush set, 
And Itadf rich banquets close at hand j)re[)are. 
Then lie witli horses and with chariots met 
The king, and welcomed biin witli fair words, 

\Vith fraud at heart, niid to the feast him led ; 
'I'hcn- like a staUed <>x, smote him while he 

Tnilisl. of WOHSLEV. 

From Pylos Telcmachus, accompanied 
by a son of Nestor, rode to Sjiarta, where 
tliey arrived on the evening of the second 

nOMER.— .30 

day; the season being autumn, for, we 
are incidentally told that " the sun had set 
upon the yellow harvest-fields." Menelaus 
had got back to Sparta not many months 
before, and was living there in great state 
and contentment with Helen, quite un- 
mindful of her old escapade with Paris. 
It was high-time at Sparta, for Hcrmione, 
liis only child by Helen, was about to 
leave her parents to become the bride of 
the red-haired Neoptolemus, the son of 
Achilles, under whom Troy had been 
taken ; and an illegitimate son of Mene- 
laus'Was about to be married in his father's 
palace. Helen comes forth to greet the 
new guest, whom she recognizes at once 
from Ills strong likeness to his father 


Forth from her fragrant chamber Helen passed 
Like gokl-bowed J)iuii ; ami Adraste came 
The bearer of her tlirone's mujestic frame ; 
Her carpet's iine-wrouglit lleece Alcii)pe bore ; 
IMiylo her basket bright witli silver ore, 
(lift of the wife of J*olybus, wlio swayed 
AVhen Thebes — the Egyptian Thebes — scant 

wealth disjdayed : 
His wife, Alcandra, from h(U' treasured store, 
A golfkui sjjindle to fair Helen bore, 
And a bright silver basket, on wdiose round 
A rim of burnished gold was closely bound. 
Trand. of Sotuki-.v. 

l>cfore Helen made her appeai-aiicc, 
Mciu^laus had been relating to 'I'cloma- 
chus some of the incidents of his long and 
wide wanderings since the fall of Troy. 


Hardly T came at last, in the eiglith year, 
lloMie witli my shij)s from my long wanderings, 
V'AV as to f-yprus in niv woo severe, 


HOMER.— 31 

Phoenice, Egypt, did the waves me bear ; 
Sidon and Ethiopia I have seen ; 

Even to Escambus roamed, and Libya, where 
The lambs are full-horned from their birth, I 

And in the rolling year the fruitful flocks 
thrice yean. 

Transl. o/Worsley. 

Menelaus had grown very rich during 
these long wanderings. Herodotus (q. v.) 
tells a story which had been told to him 
by the Egyptian priests, and which he be- 
lieved to be true, which shows that this 
wealth had been acquired by pilhige and 
robbery. But of this story Homer knows 
nothing. Two griefs, liowever, weigh 
heavily upon the heart of Menelaus : the 
murder of his brother Agamemnon, and 
t]ie uncertainty which hangs over the fate 
of Ulysses. 


His was the fate to suffer grievous woe, 

And mine to mourn without forgetful ness, 
While onward and still on the seasons flow, 

And he yet absent, and I comfortless. 

Whether he live or die we cannot guess. 
Him haply old Laertes doth lament, 

And sage Penelope, in sore distress. 
And to Telemachus the hours are spent 
In sadness, whom he left new-born when first 
he went. 

7V(lHSl. o/'WoKsi-KV. 

It is at this moment, wlicn Menelaus is 
llins unbos(^niing lumsclt" to his as yet un- 
Icnown guest, that Helen enters the hall, 
and the personality of relemaclius is dis- 
closed. She perceives their sadness; but 
slie lias tli(> means of remedying it for one 
(hiy. While in Egy[)t she liad learned 
.s'MiK! of tlio secrets of tliat lainl of ancient 

HOMER.— 32 

wisdom — among tliem was that of tlie con- 
coction of Nepenthes. 


Which so cures heartache and the inward 
That men forget all sorrows wherein they 

He who hatli tasted of the draught divine 
Weeps not that day although liis mother die 

Or father, or cut olf before his even 
Mother or child beloved fall miserably, 
Hewn by the pitiless sword, he sitting silent by, 
Transl. of Wousley. 

WTiile abiding in Egypt some years be- 
fore, Menelaus liad received a m3'sterious 
intimation that Ulysses was then alive, but 
was detained by the nymph Cal}])so on 
her enchanted island, from which he was 
longing to make his escape. Thus much 
learned, Telemachus, after a month's stay, 
rides back to Pylos, where his vessel was 
lying, and embarks upon his return voy- 
age to Ithaca. All this occupies four 
Books of the Odyssey. But in the mean- 
time other events have been transpiring. 
At the same time that Pallas set out from 
Olympus for Ithaca, Mercury, at the bid- 
ding of Zeus, started for the island of 


Thus charged he: nor Argicides denied, 
But to his feet his fair-winged shoes he tied, 
Anibrosian, golden ; that in his comintmd 
But either sea, or the unmeasured land. 
With pace as easy as a puft of wind. 
Then up his rod went, with which he declined 
The eyes of any waker, when he pleased. 
And any sleeper, when he wish'd, diseased. 
This took, lie stoop'd Bioria, and thence 
Glid through the air, and Neptune's conllueiice 

HOMER.— 33 

Kissed as he flew, and check'd the waves as 

As any sea-mew in her fishing flight, 
Her thick wings sousing in the savory seas ; 
Like her, lie pass'd a world of wilderness. 
But when the far-off isle he touch'd, he went 
Up from the blue sea to the continent. 
And reach'd the ample cavern of the Queen, 
Whom he found within ; without, seldom seeu. 

A sun-like fire upon the hearth did flame, 
The matter precious, and divine the frame; 
Of cedar cleft and incense was the pile, 
That breath'd an odor round about the isle. 
Herself was seated in an inner room, 
Whom sweetly sing he heard, and at her loom, 
About a curious web, whose yarn she threw 
In with a golden shuttle. A grove grew 
In endless spring about her cavern round, 
With odorous cypress, pines, and poplars 

crown'd, [tours bred. 

Where hawks, sea-owls, and long-tongued bit- 
And other birds their shadj^ pinions spread ; 
All fowls maritimal : none roosted there. 
But those labors in the waters were. 

Four fountains, one against another, pour'd 
Their silver streams ; and meadows all en- 

With sweet balm-gentle, and blue violets lud, 
That deck'd the soft breasts of each fragrant 

Should any one, though lie immortal were. 
Arrive and see the sacred objects then'. 
He would admire them, and be overjoy'd ; 
And so stood Hermcs's ravislu^l })o\vers ein- 

But having all admir'd, ]\v. cntcr'd on 
The ample cave, nor (-onld be seen uidtnown 
Of great (Jalypsi) (for all I)eiti(>H are 
I'ntnipt in eai'h other's knowledgti, tln)U<,di .so 

Sever'd in dwellings) ; bnl he eoidd nt)t see 
Ulysses lliere within : witliont was ho 
Set .sad ashore, where 'twas his use to view 

HOMKU.— ;i4 

Til' iinquicf sea, .siirliM^ wept, and ciniity dww 
1 lis heart of comfort. 

7V(lttsl. Oj'Cll A I'M AX. 

Calypso knows that llu; luaiidati; wliicli 
Mercury bears — that slit; sliall I'orlhwiLli 
sot Ulysses free — iiiiist be obeyecl. She 
indeed grumbles that Zeus shouhl be so 
whimsical as to thus se})arate lier from 
lier mortal lover, of whom she has come 
to be veiy fond. But she is indeed vexed 
at the pleasure he evinces at the separa- 
tion ; and she addresses him in terras of 
mild reproach. 


Cliilil of Laertes, would'st tliou fain depart 

Hence to thine own fatherland ? Farewell ! 
Yet, couldst thou read the sorrow and the 
With me and immortality to dwell, 
Thou wouldst rejoice, and love my mansion 
J)ee[)ly and long thou yearnest for tli\' wife; 

Yet her in beauty I perchance excel. 
l-Jeseems not one who hath but mortal life 
With forms of deathless mould to challenge a 
vain strife. 

Transl. o/'Wobsley. 


All this I know, and do m^^self avow. 

Well may Penelojie in form and brow 
And stature seem inferior far to thee, 

For she is mortal, and immortal thou. 
Yet even thus 'tis very dear to me 
My long-desired return and ancient lionie to see. 

But if .some god amid tlie wine-dark flood 
With doom [tursue me, and my vessel mar, 

Then will I bear it as a brave man should. 
Not the first time I suffer : wave and war 
Deep in my life have graven many a scar. 

2'rafisf. o/"WORSLEY. 

HOMER.— 35 

There is no boat on Calypso's islanu , 
but she aids him to build one, in whicli 
he sails off alone. A storm arises, and 
his boat is wrecked on the island of 
Scheria, where he falls asleep on a bed of 
leaves which he has hastily collected. 
The people of tliat island are called the 
Plia3acians. Their sovereign is Alcinous, 
and lie has a daughter just growing up to 
womanhood. On that morning the Prin- 
cess Nausicaa, accompanied by her hand- 
maidens, had gone down to the beach to 
wash the household linen, which they do 
by treading it with their bare feet upon 
the smooth, hard sand. Their merry 
laughter awakens Ulysses, who comes 
forward to accost them, his only clothing 
being the leafy branch of an olive-bough, 
which he has just plucked. The scenes 
which ensue form one of the most charm- 
ing of idyls. 


All in flight 
The virgins scatter' J, frighted witli this sight, 
Ahout the j)rominent windings of the Hood. 
All but Niiusicau tied ; but fast she stood : 
l^allas had put a boldness in her breast, 
And in her fair limbs tender fear coniprest. 
And still she stood him, as resolved to know 
What man he was ; or out of what should grow 
His strange repair to them. And here was he 
]*ut to his wisdom : if her virgin knee 
He .'^hould behold — but kneeling — to embrace, 
< )r keej) aloof, and try with words of grace. 
In humblest suppliance, if In^ might obtain 
Some cover for his naki'dness, and gain 
Hnr gracf to show and guide liim to rbc town. 
The last lie best thought to be worth his own. 
In weighing l)otli well: to ke((p still aloof, 
And give with soft words his d(\siri's their jiroof 
Lest, pressing so near as to touch her knee, 

irOMKll.— 06 

Ho migllt incciisc licr maidi-ii iiiodcsf y. 
This fiiir ;iih1 lilv<l s^tcoch tliuii sht'wVl this was 
hv : 

" Let nil' ])(!seocli, O Queen, tlie truth of tliee, 
Are 3'ou of mortal or the deiiied race Y 
If of the gods, tliat tli' ample heavoua embraee, 
I can resemble you to none ahovc 
So near as to the (diaste-born birth of Jove, 
The beamy Cynthia. Her you full present 
In grace of every god-liUo liniuiment, 
Her goodly magnitude, and all th' address 
You promise of her very jterfectness. 
If sprung of humans that inhabit earth, 
Thrice blest are both the authors of your birth ; 
Thrice'blest your brothers, that in your deserts 
Must, even to rapture, bear delighted hearts, 
To see, so like the first trim of a tree, 
Your form adorn a dance. ]>ut most blest he, 
Of all that breathe, that hath the gift t' engage 
Your Itright neck in the yoke of marriage. 
And deck his house with your counnauding 

I have not seen a man of so much spirit. 
Nor man nor womau 1 did ever see 
At all parts eijual to the parts in thee. 
T' enjoy your sight, doth admiration seize 
My eyes and apprehensive faculties. 

"Latel}'^ in Delos (with a charge of men 
Arrived, that rendered me most wretched then, 
Now making me thus naked) I beheld 
The burthen of a palm, whose issues swell'd 
About Apollo's fane, and that put on 
A grace like thee ; for earth had never none 
Of all her sylvan issues so adorned. 
Into amaze my very soul was turn'd 
To give it observation ; as now thee 
To view, O virgin, a stupidity 
Past admirati(ni strikes me, join'd with fear. 
To do a supjiliant's due, and press so near 
As to embrace thy knees." 

Transl. oy Chapman. 

Nausicaa fully reassured by this accost 

HOMER.— 37 

of Ulysses, recalls her fugitive attendants, 
and tells thein tliat " the stranger and 
poor are the messengers of the gods." 
Ulysses, havhig been supplied Avith food 
disappears for a brief space. When he 
again presents himself — thanks to Pallas 
— he is fittingly clad, his " hyacintliine 
locks " flowing down upon his stately 
shoulders. Nausicaa assures him that he 
will be welcome at her father's palace, to 
which he follows her at a respectful dis- 
tance. King Alcinous welcomes the stran- 
ger, and soon makes him at home in his 
magnificent palace, which stands surround- 
ed with lovely orchards and gardens. 


There in full prime the orchard-trees grow tiill, 

Sweet fii;, pomegranate, aj)])le-fruited fair, 
Pear, ami tlie healtliful olive. Kaeli and all 

Both .summer droughts and chills of winter 
spare ; [air 

All tlie year round they flourish. Some the 
Of zephyr warms to life, some doth mature, 

Aj>}de grows old on apple, pear on pear, 
Fig follows fig, vintage doth vintage lure ; 
Thus the rich revolution doth for aye endure. 
Transl. o/'Worsley. 

THE palace op ALCINOUS. 

For, like the sun's fire or the moon's, a light 
Far .streaming through the high-roofed liouse 
(lid pass 
l<'rnin the long basement to the topmost height, 
'lliere on eacrli side ran walls of flaming brass, 
Zoned on the summit with a blue bright 
Of cornice ; and the doors were framed of gold; 
\Miere, uiulcrneatli, the brazen floor doth 
Silver jiilasters, which with grace upbold 
Lintel of silver fnuned j the ring was buriuslied 


nOMEU.— .38 

And dogs on each side of tho doors then; stand, 

ISilvor :ind gold, tlio wliicli in uiu-iciit d;!}- 
Hephipstus wrouglit witli cunning bniin and 
And set for sentinels to hold the way. ' 
Deatli cannot tame them, nor the years decay. 
And from the sliining threshold tlirones were 
Skirting tlie walls in lustrous long arra}', 
On to the far room, where tlie wunieu met, 
With nuiny a rich robe strewn and woven 

There the IMueacian cliieftains eat and drink, 

While golden youths on jKHlestals upbear 
Each in his outstretched hand a lighttMl link, 
Which Jiiglitly <tn the royal feast dotli llarc. 
And in tlie liouse are lifty handmaids fair; 
Some in the mill the yellow corn grind small ; 
Some ply the looms, and shuttles twirl, which 
Flash like the ipiivering leaves of aspen tall ; 
And from the close-spun weft the trickling oil 
will fall. 

Trant<l. of Wouslicy. 

Kinuf .\hiiioiis is cliarnied Avith Ulysses 
;it JiisL .si;_;lil, and asks liini to n-nniin in 
l*li;i'aci;i and bcuouu; the liusbiuid of Na,u- 
sicaa, wlioni lio docs iioL know tlial the 
sli'anger has ever seen. Ulysses tells liiin 
of tiieii- meetiiio' in the morning, and 
jtniises her highly ; but says that his one 
desire is to make liis way back to liis AviCe 
at home. The king promises to aid jiim 
in tliisrand buls liim to a magnificent 
entertainment to be given the next day in 
his Ivonor. Among the company is the 
blind bard Demodocus, in whom some 
have fancied that Homer pictures liimself. 


Him the ]\Iuse loved, and gave him good and 

HOMER.— 39 

111, that of light she did his eyes deprive ; 
Good, that sweet minstrelsies divine, at will, 
She lent him, and a voice men's ears to 
For him Pontonous's silver-studded chair 

Set with the feasters, leaning it with skill 
Against the column, and with tender care 
j\lade the blind fingers feel the harp suspended 

Transl. o/' Woks ley. 

The repast is followed by games of 
strength and skill, in which Ulysses out- 
does all tlie other competitors. After the 
games comes a banquet; and here we have 
our second and last sight of Nausicaa. 


He from tlie hath cleansed from the dust of 


Passed to the drinkers; and Nausicaa there 

Stood, moulded by the gods exceeding fair. 
She on the roof-tree pillar, leaning, heard 

Ulysses; turning, she beheld him near. 
])eep in her breast admiring wonder stirred, 
And ill a low sweet voice she spake this wijigcd 

word : 
" Hail, stranger guest ! When fatherland and 
w i f C 

Tliou shalt revisit, then reineniber nH\ 
Since to me first thou owest the price of life." 

And to tlie royal virgin answered he: 

"('liild of a gentu'iuis sire, if willed it be 
By Tliunderer Zeus, who all dominion hatli, 

'JMiat 1 my home and dear return j'f^t see, 
Tliere at lliy shrine will I devote my breath, 
Tin re worsliij) thee, dear maid, my saviour 
from dark death. 

7)'((/ls/. 0/'\\'<»KSl,KV. 

Among the lays wliitdi Deniodocns sings 
is that of till! siege of rroy. Ulysses asks 
]iim to tell the story of tin' VV^ondrons 
llorse. Ho coniplies, taking up the story 



at a])Out tlie point wliere tlio Iliad leaves 
it olt'; and of all that follows the hero 
is Ulysses of Ithaca. Ulysses is deeply 
moved ; and the king inquires who he is, 
and why he is so strangely moved. Ulysses 
re])lies : " The story will be a long one, 
and sad to tell. I am Ulysses, son of 
Laertes." He then begins to tell what 
had befallen him since tlie fall of Troy. 

The geography of the Odyssey is nearly 
all purely imaginary. Only two points 
are capable of identiiication. The island 
of Ithaca and the site of Troy. Ithaca lies 
off the western coast of the mainland of 
Greece in about lat. 39" ; Troy was in Asia 
Minor, in about lat. 40°. The distance in 
a straight line is about 350 miles ; by sea 
al)()ut 600 miles. To sail from Troy to 
Ithaca Ulysses had to cross the Archipel- 
ago ; skirt down the eastern side of the 
mainland of Greece, round its southern 
point, and sail about 200 miles up the 
western coast. While rounding this 
southern point of Greece a storm drove 
them westward over unknown seas, until 
on the tenth day they reached the land of 
the Lotos-eaters. Leaving this they come 
to the island inhabited by the Cyclopes, a 
race of monsters in human form, but hav- 
ing only one eye in the middle of their 
foieheads. Ulysses and some of his com- 
rades go ashore and come to a cavern 
which jjroved to be the abode of Tolyphe- 
mus, a son of Neptune, the hugest of all 
the Cyclopes. He is not at home, and 
the Greeks hide in the recesses of the 
cave awaiting his return. Polyphemus 
coming in at evening, discovers the in- 
truders, seizes two of them, whom he de- 
vours on the spot. Next morning he eats 



a couple more for breakfast. Ulysses, by 
some prudent forethought had brought with 
him a goatskin of excellent wine, which 
he asks the giant to taste. Polyphemus 
does so, gulps down the whole bottle, and 
is so delighted that he asks the name of 
tlie donor. Ulysses gives his name as 
Outis^ that is, in English, " Noman." 


''Hear then; my name is Noman. From of 
My father, mother, these mj'- comrades bold, 
Gave me this title." So I spake, and he 

Answered at once, with mind of ruthless 
mould : 
"Tliis shall fit largess unto iSToman be — 
Last of all thy mates, 1 promise to eat thee." 

7'n(/l.s/. (>/ WOKSLKV. 

JN)ly[)hemus then lies down to sleep off 
the effects of the potent Avine. Ulysses 
finds a large sharpened stake, hardens the 
point in tiie lire, and with it he and his 
comrades, bore out the giant's eye, "as 
the shipwright bores with an augur," and 
make their escape from the cave. The 
blinded giant comes out roaring with })ain, 
and calls upon his father, Nej)tuiic, to take 
vengeance upon the destroyer of his sight. 
Hence arose the wrath of the Sea-god, 
wlii(di was the occasion of all the misfort- 
unes which thereafter befell Ulysses, 

Sailing on he reached the island abode 
of vEolus, god of the winds, where he re- 
mained a month, and gained the good will 
of yKoIus so much that on parting he be- 
st owchI u|»on him a gift, which would 
ensure for him a safe voyage. This was a 
leather bag in which all tlu; winds were 
tied u]., (;\cept the West Wind, which 
would waft him straight to Ithaca, toward 

irOMER.— i2 

which tliey steered for nine days. Tliey 
eiiine so dose thiil Ulysses could see the 
smoke iiiisiiig from the herdsiueii's fires oii 
the lieights. Then lie fell aslee]) on the 
deck ; and liis comrades, curious to know 
what was ctjntained in the mysterious bag, 
untied it. Forth rushed the imprisoned 
winds, driving the vessel back to the 
realms of yI'^oIus, who would liave nothing 
more to do with a wretch, who manifestly 
lay under the divine wratli. l*ursuing liis 
voyage as l)cst he might, Ulysses, after 
being in danger of being devoured by the 
cannibal Licstrygonians, readies the island 
where dwelt tlie enchanter Circe, "bright- 
haired daughter of the Sun." 


Wolves of the mountain all around the way 

And lions softened by the spell divine, 
As each her pjiilter had j)artaken, lay 

Tliese clusterround the men's advancing line 
Fawning like dogs who, when tlieir lord 
doth dine, 
Wait till he issues from the banquet-hall, 

And for the choice gifts which his hands 
Fawn, for he ne'er forgets them : So these all 
Fawn on our friends, wliom much the unwont- 
ed sights aj)pal. 
Soon at her vestibule they pause, and hear 
A voice of singing from a lovely phice, 

Where Circe weaves her great web year by 
So shining, slender, and instinct with grace, 
As weave the daughters of immortal race. 

Trcmsl. of Woksley. 

The Grecians (Ulysses not being of 
this party) enter the palace, drink of a 
cup which Circe proffers ; whereuixm, at 
a stroke of her magic wand, they become 


HOMER.— 43 

transformed into swine in form, thougli 
still retaining their human senses. Ulysses 
wondering at their absence, sets out alone 
in search of his comrades. On his way he 
is met by a fair youth (who proves to be 
the god Mercury) who gives him a root 
which will protect him against all magical 
enchantments. He enters the palace, 
drinks of the cup of Circe, who strikes him 
with her wand, and bids him " go ajid herd 
with his companions." But Ulysses can- 
not resist the blandishments of Circe ; and 
he voluntarily remains with her for a whole 
year. Then he takes leave of her and 
their newborn child. But in parting she 
assures him that toils and dangers await 
him ; and that if he would know his future 
fate, he must visit the Regions of the 
Dead, and there consult with the Shade of 
the great prophet Tiresias. Taking ship, 
he sails all day, voyaging along the regions 
of the "dark Cimmerian tribe, who skirt 
the realms of Hades." 


Fortliwith from Erebus a phantom crowd 

Loomed fortli, tlio shadowy People of the 
Dead :— 
Old men, witli load of early anguish bowed, 
Brides in tlieir bloom cut off, and youth un- 
Virgins whose tender eyelids tlieii first shed 
True sorrow; men with gory arms renowned, 
Pierced ])y the sharp sword on the deatli- 
plain red, 
All these Hock darkling' willi a hideous sound. 
Lured ]»y the scent of lilood, tlic open trench 

'rraiisl. (if ^VoKsrJ^Y. 

At last Tiresias a] )poars, and tells Ulysses 
what his future fate will be. On a certain 
coast he would find I he herds and Hocks 

HOMER.— 44 

of the Sun at pasture. If tlicy were left 
uninjured he and his comrades would 
speedily reach Ithaca ; if they were harmed 
he alone wouhl escape, after long suffer- 
ings. Proceetling along he encountei'sthe 
Shades of heroes and heroines. He also 
saw, enduring perpetual torment, tliose 
w])o had been notorious offenders against 
the majesty of the gods. 


There also Tantahis in anguisli stood, 

Phmged in tlie stream of a traiishiceiit lake, 
And to his cliiii welled ever tlie cold flood; 

But when lie rushed, in fierce desire to 

His torment, not one drop could he partake. 
For as the old man stooping seems to meet 

That water with his tiery lips, and slake 
The frenzy of wild thirst, around his feet, 
Leaving the wet earth dry, the shuddering 
waves retreat. 

Also the thick-leaved arches overhead 

Fruit of all savor in rich profusion flung, 
Ami in his clasp rich clusters seemed to shed. 

Rich citrons waved, with shining fruitage 

Pears and pomegranates, olive ever young, 
And the sweet mellowing lig ; hut whenso'er 

Tlie old man, fain to vt)o\ his burning tongue. 
Clutched with his fingers at the branches fair, 
Came a strong wind and whirled them sky- 
ward through the air. 

And J saw Sisyphus in a travail strong 

Shove with both liands a mighty sphere of 
stone ; 
^Vitli feet and laboring wrists he, laboring 
Just pushed the vast globe uj), with many a 

groan ; 
But when he thought the huge mass to have 
21 3a« 

nOMER.— 45 

Clear o'er the summit, the enormous weight 
Back to the nether plain rolled tumbling 
He, straining, the great toil resumed, while 

Bathed each laborious limb, and his brow smok- 
ed with heat. 

Trcmsl. o/'Worsley. 

Passing out of the gloomy portals of 
Hades, Ulysses took ship and sailed past 
the island where the twin sister Sirens lay 
conched in flowers, luring to inevitable de- 
struction every one who listened to their 
song. Utysses, forewarned by Circe, stop- 
ped the ears of Ir's men \\\i\\ wax, so that no 
one of them could hear the song, which, 
however, he was resolved to hear. So lie 
ordered Ins men to bind him to the mast, 
and not to unbind liim, however much he 
miglit command, threaten or entreat. He 
sailed close along the shore, and lieard the 
song of the Sirens — the only man who ever 
heard it and lived. 


Come here, thou worthy of a world of praise, 
That dost so high tlie (xrocian glory raise ; 
Ulysses, stay lliat ship, and that song hear, 
That none passed ever, but it bent his ear, 
But left him ravish'd and instructed more 
By us, than any ever heard before. 
For we know all things whatsoever were 
In wide Troy labor'd ; whatsoever there 
The Grecians and the Trojans both sustain'd 
]iy those higli issues that the gods ordain'd. 
And whatsoever all the eartli can show, 
T' inform a knowledge of desert, we know. 
Transl. o/" Chapman. 

Soon they reached the sliore wlicre the 
oxen of tlie Snn were pastured. Ulysses, 
much against liis own judgment, was per- 

HOMER.— 40 

siiaded to allow his weary crew to go 
ashore, after exacting a solemn vow tliat 
the sacred herds should not he molested. 
Stress of weather detained them liere for 
a month until their supplies were exhaust- 
ed, and they hud nothing to eat except the 
birds they could snare and the fish they 
could catch. While Ulysses was asleep, 
liis men began to slay the sacred oxen. 
Ominous prodigies ensued. The Sun-god 
threatened Zeus that if this sacrilege was 
permitted to go unavenged, he would no 
longer light up the heavens, but would go 
down and shine in Hades. When the 
vessel of Ulysses ])ut to sea, Zeus shattered 
it with a thunderbolt, and all on board per- 
ished except Ulysses, Avho clung to the 
broken mast, upon which he floated nine 
days, narrowly escaping being drawn into 
the whirlpool of Charybdis. He was at 
length cast ashore upon Calypso's island, 
wliere, after seven years, we found him at 
the opening of the poem. 

King Alcinous fits the hero out magnifi- 
cently for his homeward voyage to Ithaca, 
which was to be performed in one of tiiose 
magic galleys peculiar to the Plueacians — 
the full secret of which remains to be dis- 
covered — and which are thus described by 
the king. 


For unto us no pilots appertain, 

Rudder iKir lu-hii, which other harks obey. 
These, ruled Ly reason, their own course es- 
Sharin<]j men's minds. Cities and climes tliey 
Andtlirough tlie deep sea-gorge cleaving way, 
AVrapt in an andiient vapor, to and fro 
Sail in a fearless scorn of scatlie or overthrow. 
IVaud. q/'WoKSLEY. 

HOMEK.— 47 

They set out on the voyage in the even- 
ing, and reach Ithaca early in the morn- 
ing, before Ulysses had awakened. The 
Phseaqians land him, still asleep, lay him 
under an olive-tree, placing all his treasure 
by his side, and take their departure, no 
man having perceived their coming or 
going. When he awakes he sees by his 
side a shepherd, who asks him who he is 
and whence he came. Ulysses, who does 
not recognize this as liis own Ithaca, in- 
vents a plausible tale ; whereupon the 
shepherd changes form, and appears as 
Pallas. She compliments him upon the 
cleverness with which he had made up a 
story which would have imposed upon 
any one but the Goddess of Wisdom. She 
gives him tidings of his son and wife — the 
first Avliich he had received for ten years 
— and promises to aid him in the work 
which lies before him. She waves her 
magic wand over him, when his appear- 
ance is at once transformed into that of an 
aged beggar, gray, bent, wrinkled, and 
clad in squalid rags. Thus disguised, so 
that no one could recognize him, she di- 
rects him to seek present refuge with his 
own s\\ineherd — or rather overseer — Eu- 
nijeus, who, not suspecting who he is, 
gives him a kindly reception. 

Telemachus liad on that very evening, 
got back to Ithaca. Mooi'ing his vessel in 
a quiet bay, so that he might liave time to 
learn how tilings had been going on, he 
goes to the cabin of Eumaius. The swine- 
herd welcomes liim with open arms and 
wet eyes. 


Thiiu, () Toloinachus, iiiy life aiitl lii^ht ! 
Jvotuniest ; yet iny situl did often say 
That never, never umre, should I liavc sight 


HOMER.— 48 

Of thy sweet face, since thou didst sail away. 
Enter, dear child, and let my heart allay 
Its yearnings ; newly art thou come from far ; 

Thou comest all too seldom — fain to stay 
In the thronged city, where the suitors are, 
Silently looking on, while foes thy substance 

I'ransl. o/* Worslky. 

The seeming beggar is sitting in the 
cabin, and Telemachus, after greeting him 
courteously, sends Eumjeus to announce 
to liis mother liis own safe return. Then 
Pallas appears — seen only by Ulysses and 
the dogs who cower and whine at the 
celestial appearance. She bids Ulysses to 
reveal himself to liis son. At her touch 
the becrsar's rags fall off, a royal robe takes 
their place ; and the hero stands up in all 
his stately proportions. For the first time 
since he was a babe in his mother's arms 
does Telemachus look upon his father. 
The plan of operation is soon formed. 
Telemachus is iiot to inform his mother of 
her husband's return until they can dis- 
cover who among the household can be re- 
lied upon to aid them in exterminating 
the throng of imperious suitors and their 
armed retinues. Ulysses in time — having 
resumed the appearance of a poorly-clad 
old man — takes his way to the palace. 
Hard by is lying his favorite hound, Argus, 
dying of old age. But the dog, with the 
instinct of his kind, recognizes his master 
through his unseemly disguise, and at- 
tempts to follow him into the palace ; but 
dies on the threshold. 

The suitors within are holding high car- 
nival. Ulysses goes around tlie tables, 
soliciting some scraps to fill his beggar's 
wallet. None refuse except Antinous, the 


HOMER.— 49 

most stalwart of them all, who bids the 
old man to get out of the way. Ulj^sses 
expresses some wonder that a spirit so 
mean should inhabit a body so fair ; where- 
at Antiuous hurls a heavy stool at his 
head. Ulysses moves quietly to the door- 
way, and raises his voice in solemn impre- 
cation to the powers Divine who are the 
protectors of the stranger and the poor. 


Hear me, ye suitors of the queen divine ! 

Men grieve not for the wounds they take in 
Defending their own wealth, white sheep or 
kine : 
But me — bear witness — doth Antinous smite 
Only because I suffer hunger's bite, 
Fount to mankind of evils evermore. 

Now may Antinous, ere his nuptial night — • 
If there be Gods and Furies of the poor — 
Die unavenged, unwept, upon the palace floor. 
Transl. o/'Wokslev. 

Amphinomus one of the suitors, of less 
ignoble spirit than the rest, is indignant at 
this outrage upon a poor old man, and 
utters a righteous rebuke to Antinous — 
the only decent word spoken by any of 
that vile crew whose doom is so close at 


Not to thine liouor hast tliou now lot fall, 
Antinous, on th(> wandering poor this blow. 

Haply a god from lieaven is in our hall. 

And thou art ripe for ruin ; 1 liid thee know, 
(Juds in the garb oi strangers to and fro 

Wander the cities, and men's ways discern ; 
Yea, through the wide earth in ail shapes 
they go. 

Changed, yet the same, and with their own 
eyes learn. 


HOMER.— 50 

How live tlie sacred l;i\vs — wlu) lioM tliein, and 
wlio sj»urn. 

Tratisl. of WoKSLKY. 

The next day is the day of retribution. 
It is the feast of Apollo, and the suitors 
celebrate it with even more than their 
wonted revelry and insolence, 'i'heyeven 
insult Teleniachus upon his father's own 
liearthstone. Penelope — still ignorant of 
the return of Ulysses — has come to the 
sad conclusion that she will be forced to 
make choice of one of the hated suitors. 
But she bethinks herself of an expedient 
which may at least put off the hated mo- 
ment. There is one noted feat which she 
liad seen Ulysses perform in olden days. 
This is to shoot an arrow through the eyes 
of twelve axe-heads set up in a line. She 
brings down the mighty bow, which 
Ulysses had not taken with him*to Troy, 
and promises that she will accept as her 
future lord the suitor who can bend that 
bow, and send the arrow through the axe- 
eyes. One after another makes the at- 
tempt ; but not one of them can even bend 
tiie bow. 'J'hen the seeming beggar — who 
has in the meantime revealed himself to a 
few in whom he has found that he may 
confide — makes request that he may make 
trial of this wonderful bow. The suitors 
fling fierce abuse u})on him for his auda- 
city. But Teleniachus, whose autlu)rity 
in his father's house they are not quite 
j)repared to deny, gives permission. 
Ulysses takes the bow, examines it care- 
fully to see that wood and string are in 
proper order, lits the arrow to the notch, 
and without even rising from his seat 
draws tiie bow to its full sti-etch, and sends 
the arrow through the whole line of axe- 




"Behold the mark is hit, 
Hit without laboi- ! The old strength cleaves 
Upon nie, and my bones are stoutly knit — 
Not as the suitors mock me in their scornful 
Now is it time their evening meal is set 

Before the Achaians, ere the sun goes down. 
And other entertainment shall come yet: 

Dance and the song, which are the banquet's 

He spake, and with his eyebrows curved the 
Seizing his sword and spear Telemachus came, 

Son of Ulysses, chief of high renown, 
And, helmeted with brass like fiery flame, 
Stood by his father's throne, and waited the 

dire aim. 
Stripped of his rags then leapt the godlike king 
On the great threshold, in his liaiul the bow 
And quiver, filled with arrows of mortal sting. 
These with a rattle he rained down below, 
Loose at his feet, and spoke among them so : 
" See at the last oar matchless bout is o'er ! 
Now for another mark, that I may know 
If I can hit what none hath hit before. 
And if Apollo hear me in the pi*ayer I pour." 
Trcmsl. of Wo us lev. 

lie aims the first arrow at Aiitiiious. It 
pierces tlie throat, and he falls with the 
iintasted goblet at liis lips. The suitors 
stand aghast for a moment, when Ulysses 
(l('('lar(\s liimself and his purpose. They 
look around for the weapons wliieh are 
wont to hang upon the walls; but they 
liave been secretly removed hy Ul3\sse8 
and liis son. Unarmed as thc}'^ are, tlie 
suitors make a rnsh. liut Ampliinomus 
who is fdicinost — and for whom one would 
have linjx'd a better fate — falls by tho 
spear of Telemachus. Ulysses plies his 


HOMER.— Ci2 

fatal arrows until the quiver is exliausted \ 
and tlicn ho and Teleniachus, aided by 
Euma'us and another faith lul retainer 
who have just come into tlu; hall, com- 
jilete the Moik of death. When all arc, 
slain, Eurycleia, tlie ohl nurse of Ulyss(;s, 
who ahme of all the females of the house- 
liohl had been told of the return of Ulysses, 
enters the hall, and is about to raise a 
shout of triunipli, but Ulysses restrains 
lier : 


Nurse, with a mute lieart this my vengeance 
hail ; 
Not holy is it o'er tlu' slain to boast. 
These Heaven ami tlirir own criiiii'.s liavo 
brought to bale ; 
Since of all strangers, from eai-IITs (ivi-ry 
No luan was honored of lliis godless host; 

Nor good nor evil, whosoe'er tliey knew: — 
And with tlioir souls they pay the fearful cost. 
Tratid. o/"W(>usLKY. 

Penelope, wholiad retired to her distant 
chamber befcne the axe-eye trial had 
begun, and knew notliing of what had 
since taken place, is now told of it by the 
uurse. Slie goes down to the fatal liall, 
from which the bodies had been removed. 
She cannot at first believe that Ulysses 
has come back, bnt apprehends that some 
one has assumcnl liis name. And she is 
not fully assured that it is really lier hus- 
band until he lecalls to her recollection a 
domestic incident of which only she and 
he could have had any knowledge. 

PKNELOPe's recognition of ULYSSES. 

Then fi-om the eyelids the quick teai-s did start, 
And she ran to him from her place, and threw 

HOMER.— 53 

Her arms about liis neck, unci a warm dew 
Of kisses poured upon him, and thus spake : 

"Frown not, Ulysses, thou art wise and true ! 
But God gave Sorrow, and hath grudged to 

Our path to old ago sweet, nor willed us to par- 
Youth's joys together. Yet forgive me this, 
Nor hate me that when first I saw thy brow, 

I fell not on thy neck, and gave no kiss, 
Nor wept in thy dear arms, as I do now. 
For in my breast a bitter fear did bow 

^ly soul, and I lived shuddering day by day, 
Lest a strange man come hither, and avow 
False things, and steal my spirit, and bewray 
My love : such guile men scheme to lead the 
pure astra}'. 

Transl. of VVorsley. 

Here witli the tweuty-tliird Book, the 
story of tlie Odyssey properly comes to an 
end. But there is another Book, which is 
so decidedly inferior to the others that 
some critics are inclined to question its 
authenticity. Be this as it may, there is 
one passage in this Book quite worthy of 
Homer. Ulysses goes to see his aged 
father, Laertes, who is passing his last 
years in retirement at his secluded farm. 
The old man cannot at once believe that 
this can he his son, whom he had not seen 
f(n' twenty 3^ears, and liad long believed to 
be dead. 


All this made not his staid faith so free 

T(j trust his words ; who said : '' If you are he, 

Approve it by some sign.'' " This scar then see," 

Keplied Ulysses, "given me by the boar 

Slain in Parnassus ; I being sent before, 

r>y yours and b^^ my honored mother's will, 

To see your sire Autolycus fulfil 

The gifts he vow'd at giving of my name. 


nOMER. —54 

I toll you, too, the trees in goodly frame, 
Oi this fair orcliard, that I asked of you, 
Being yet a child, and follow'd for j-our show 
And name of every tree. You gave me then 
Of fig-trees forty, apple-bearers ten. 
Pear-trees thirteen, and fifty ranks of vine. 
Each one of which a season did confine 
For his best eating. Not a grape did grow 
That grew not there, and had his heavy brow 
Where Jove's fair daughters, the all-riiiening 

Gave timely date to it." 

This clmrged the powers 
Both of his knees and heart witli such impres- 
Of su(hlen comfort, that it gave possession 
Of all to trance ; the signs were all so true, 
And did the love that gave them so renew. 
He cast his arms about her son and sunk, 
The circle slipping to his feet — so shrunk 
Were all his age's fonies with the fire 
Of his young love rekindled. 

The old sire 
The S(Mi took up quite lifeless. I^ut his breath 
Again respiring, and his soul from death 
His body's powers recovering, out he cried. 
And said : " Jupiter ! I now have tried 
That there still live in heaven remembering 

Of men that serve them. Though the periods 
They set on their appearance are long 
In best men's sufferings, yet sure as strong 
They are in comforts, be their strange delays 
Extended never so from days to days." 

Transl. q/'CiiArMAx. 

Those who hold that the Iliad and the 
Odynsey are the work of one and the same 
individual Homer, are nearly unanimous 
in considering the Il'uid the work of early- 
manhood, and the Odyssey that of his 
later years. But Walter Savage Landor 
argues, not without plausibility, that the 


HOMER.— 55 

reverse is true. In the Odyssey he sees 
the production of Homer in his early maii- 
kood, when he was prompt to invent, and 
ready to sing any tale of strange and wild 
adventure. In the Iliad he sees the work 
of a man whose mere inventive faculty had 
decreased ; but who Iroked on life with 
wiser, but sterner and sadder vision. But 
this is a question the decision of which is 
not itself of any special consequence. It 
is enough that we have, and all future 
generations will hjive, these two immortal 
poems ; and it is quite safe for us to hold 
that they are the work of one and the 
same man. For, as Landor says : " It is 
easier to believe that there should have 
been one man capable of creating both the 
Iliad and the Odyssey, than that there 
shoukl have been two men capable of 
creating either of them." 


HOOD, Edwin Paxtox, an English 
clergyman and author, horn in 1X20; died 
in 1885. He was the son of a sailor, who 
served under Nelson in the Temeraire. 
For many years lie was pastor of an Inde- 
pendent Chapel in London. He was also 
a popular lecturer on literary and social 
subjects. He edited the Eclectic Review 
for years, and afterwards the Preacher 8 
Lantern. Among his works are Words- 
worthy a Bio(/raphi/ ; The Age and Its Archi- 
tects ; A Life of Stvedenhorg ; The Peerage 
of Poverty ; Dream Land and Ghost Land ; 
Genius and Industry ; Mental and Moral 
Philosophy of Laughter; The Uses of Bi- 
ography^ Romantic, Philosophic, and Didac- 
tic ; Latnps, Pitchers and Trumpets, lectures 
on the preacher's vocation. Blind Amos ; 
Life of the Rev. Thomas Binney ; Oliver 
Cromwell: his Life, Times, Battle-fields, 
and Contemporaries (1882), Scottish Char- 
acteristics (1883), and an Exposition of the 
Life and Genius of Tliomas Carlyle. He 
also edited The World of Anecdote, and 
The World of Religious Anecdote. 


The orders of the Scots were to extinguish 
their matches, to cower under tlie shocks of 
corn, and seek some imperfect shelter and sleep ; 
to-morrow nighty for most of them, the sleep 
will be perfect enough, whatever the shelter 
may be. The order to the English was, to 
stand to their arms, or to lie within reach of 
them all night. Borne waking soldiers in the 
English ivnny were holding prayer-meetings 
too. By moonliglit, as the gray lieavy morn- 
ing broke over St. Abb's Head its first faint 
streak, the first peal of the trumpets ran along 
the Scottish host. But how unj)repared were 
they then for the loud reply of the English 



host, and for the thunder of their cannons upon 
their lines. Terrible was the awakening of 
the Scottish soldiers; and their matches all 
out : the battle-cry rushed along the line — 
"The Covenant! The Covenant ! "—but it 
soon became more and more feeble, while yet 
high and strong, amid the war of the trumpets 
and the musketry, arose the watchword of 
Cromwell : " The Lord of Hosts ! The Lord 
of Hosts ! " The battlo-cry of Luther was in 
that hour the charging word of the English 

Terrible ! but short as terrible ! Cromwell 
had seized the moment and the place. The 
hour and the man met there; in overthrowing 
the one llank of the enemy's line, he made them 
the authors of their own defeat. A thick fog, 
too, had embarrassed their movements ; their 
very numbers became a source of confusion. 
But now over St. Abb's Head the sun suddenly 
appeared, crimsoning the sea, scattering the 
fogs away. The Scottish army were seen ily- 
ing in all directions — flying, and so brief a 
flight ! " They run ! " said ('romwell ; " I pro- 
tost they run!" and catching inspiration, 
doubtless, from the bright shining of the day- 
beam — "inspired,*- says ]\Ir. Forster, "by the 
thought of a triumph so mighty and resistless, 
his voice was again heard, ' Now let God arise, 
and let liis enemies be scattered ! '" It was a 
wonderful victory; wonderful even among 
wonderful triumphs ! To hear the shout sent 
up by the united English army; to see the 
general make a halt, and sing the one hundred 
and seventeenth Tsalm upon the field. Wonder- 
ful that that immense army should thus be 
scattered — 10,000 ])risoners taken, about 3,000 
slain, 200 colors, 15,000 stand of arms, and all 
the artillery ! — and that Cromwell sliouhl not 
liave lost uf his army twenty men! — Oliver 



IIOOD, Thomas, an Eii^'lish iiiillidr, 
born in London in 1790; died there in 
184r). After the dealh of his father, a 
booksi'lh'r, lie was in liis lifteenth year ap- 
prenticed to a \V()()il-tMi!:^iaver, and aecjniied 
some facility as a comic draughtsman. lie 
■wrote verses for periodicals wliihi a mer(! 
boy. In 1822 the Lam/on Ma(/azine passed 
into tlie hands of i)nblishers with wliom 
Hood was ac(juainted, and who made him 
their snb-editor. This p()sitif)n brougiit 
liim into connection witii I)e (^nincey, 
lla/.litt, Lamb, Hartley Coleridi^e, Proctor, 
TalfoQrd, and other contributors to the 
Magazine. In 1824 he married, and in 
conjunction witli liis brother-in-law, J. II. 
Reynolds, ])ublislicd a small volume of 
Odia and Aihlrt'saea to Great People. In 
I82tj he \)\\i forth the first series of Whims 
and Oddities, illustrated by himself. In 
1827 he published National Tales, and a 
volume of Poems, among which were The 
Plea of the Midsummer Fairies, Nero and 
Leander, and Lycus, the Centaur, all of a 
serious character. lie edited the annual 
called The Gem for 1829, in which appeared 
The Dream of Eugene Aram. In 1829 he 
brought out a second series of Whims and 
Oddities. In 1830 he began the ])ublica- 
tion of the Comie Annual, of which eleven 
volumes appeared, the last being in 1842. 
In 1831 he wrote Tilney Hall, his only 
novel. Pecuniary difficulties and impaired 
health induced him in 1837 to take up his 
residence on the Continent, where he re- 
mained three years, writing Up the Rhine. 
Keturning to England, in 1841, he became 
for two years the editor of the New Month- 
ly Magazine. He then started Hood's 
Magazine, which he kept up until close 


upon his death. He was also a contributor 
to Punch., in which appeared in 1844 The 
Song of the Sliirt and The Bridge of Sighn, 
both composed upon a sick bed from whicl) 
lie never rose. Hood's broken health dnr- 
iiig tlie three or four later ^ears of his life 
rendered liis pecuniary condition an embar- 
assed one ; but he accepted the situation 
bravely and uncomplainingly. In 1841 the 
members of the " Literary Fund" offered 
him a present of fifty pounds, which he 
declined in the following letter : 


The adverse cireuinstaiices to whicli allusion 
is made are unfortunately too well known from 
tlie public announcement in tlie Athemeuni 
by my precocious executcn* and of'ticious assignee. 
P)ut I beg most emphatically to re[)eat that tlie 
disclosures so drawn from me were never intend- 
ed to bespeak the world's pity or assistance. 
Sickness is too common to humainty, and poverty 
too old a companion of my order, to justify such 
an appeal. The revelation was merely meant to 
sliow, when taunted with "my creditors," that 
I liad been striving in humble imitation of an 
illustrious literary example, to satisfy all claims 
upon me, and to account for my imperfect suc- 
cess. I am too proud of my jirofession to grudge 
it some suffering. I love it still — as Cowper 
loved England — " witli all its faults," and \ 
sliDidd hardly feel as one of tlie fraternity, if 
1 had not my portion of the calamities of au- 
thors. More fortunate tlian many, I have suc- 
ceeded not only in getting into print, but ocv 
casionally in getting out of it; and surely a 
man wlio lias overcome such formidable diffi- 
culties may hope ami expect to get over the 
coinmonplace ones of procuring bread-and- 

1 am writing seriously, gentlemen, although 
in a chi>;rful tone, partly natural and jiartlv iu- 


tended to relieve you of some of your Idndly 
concern on my account. Indeed, my position 
at present is an easy one compared witli lliatof 
some eight moiitli.s ago, when out of licart, and 
out of health, helpless, spiritless, sleepless, child- 
less. I have now a liome in my own country, 
and my little ones sit at my hearth. 1 smile 
sometimes, and even laugh. For the same be- 
nign Providence that gifted me with tlie 
power of amusing others has not denied me the 
ability of entertaining myself. Moreover, to 
mere worldly losses I ]>rofcss a cheerful philoso- 
phy, which can jest "though china fall," and 
for graver troubles a Christian faith that 
consoles and supports me even in walking 
through something like the valley and the 
shadow of Death. 

My embarrrassment and bad health are of 
such standing, that lam become as it were sea- 
soned. For the last six years I have been en- 
gaged in the same struggle, without seeking, 
receiving, or recpiiring any pecuniary assistance 
whatever. My pen and pencil procured not only 
enough for my own wants, but to form a sur- 
I)lus besides — a sort <»f "' literary f und " of my 
own, which at this moment is "doing good by 
stealth." To i)rovide for similar wants there are 
the same means and resources — the same head, 
heart, and hands ; the same bad health — and 
may it only last long enough ! In short, the 
same crazy vessel for the same foul weather ; 
but I have not yet thought of hanging my en- 
sign upside down. 

Fortunately, sin(;e manhootl 1 have been de- 
pendent solely on my own exertions — a condi- 
tion which has exposed and enured me to vicis- 
situde, whilst it has nourished a pride which 
will tight on, and has yet some retrenchments 
to make ere its surrender. Your welcome sym- 
pathy is valued in proportion to the very great 
comfort and encouragement it affords me. Your 
kind wishes for my itetter health — my greatest 
want — I accept and thank you for with my 

22 337 


wliole heart; but I must not and cannot retain 
your money. I really do not feel myself to be 
yet a proper object for your bounty ; and should 
I ever become so, I fear that such a crisis will 
find me looking elsewhere : to the earth beneath 
me for final re,st, and to the heaven above me 
for final justice. 

The respite from his pulmonary disease 
was only temporary, A year before his 
deatli his straitened circumstances were 
brono^lit to the notice of Sir J\obert Peel, 
then Premier, throug-h whom a pension of 
XlOO a 3ear was awarded to Hood, and 
afterwards continued to liis wife. His 
daughter, in a letter to Mr. S. C, Hall, 
describes liis dying hour: " He called us 
round him — my motlier, my little brotlicr, 
and myself — to receive his last kiss and 
bkissing, tenderly and fondl}' given ; and 
gently clasping my mother's hand, he said : 
" llemendjer, Jane, I forgive them all^ — - 
all!^^ He lay for some time calmly and 
quietly, but breathing ])ainfully and slowl}- ; 
and my mother, bending over liim, lieard 
him murmur faintly, "O Lord, say. Arise, 
take up thy cross and follow me! " Per- 
haps the last poem by Hood is the follow- 
ing, composed a few weeks before his 
deatli : 


Farewell, life ! my senses swim, 
Ami the world is growing dim : 
Thronging shadows cloud the light. 
Like the advent of the night ; 
Colder, «;oldi'r, colder still 
Upward steals a vapor chill ; 
Strong the earthy i>dor grows : — 
I feel the mould alxne the rose. 

Welcome life I The spirit strives ; 

THOMAS noon.— r, 

Strengtli returns, .'nul liope revives ; 
Cloudy fears ami sliapes forlorn 
Fly like shadows at the morn ; 
O'er the earth there comes a bloom ; 
Sunny light for sullen gloom, 
Warm ]>ei-fume for vapor cold : — 
I smell the rose above the mould. 


Well hast thou said, departed l^urke, 

All chivalrous romatitic work 

Is ended now and past ! 
Tliat iron age, which some have thought 
Of mettle over-wrought, 

Ja now all over-cast. 

Ay ! where are those heroic knights 
Of old — those armadillo wights 

Who wore the platcul vest ? 
Great Charlemagne and all his Peers 
Are cold — enjoying, with their sj)ears, 

An everlasting rest. 

The bold King Arthur sleej)eth sound ; 
So sle(!p his Knights who gave that Round 

Old Table sucth eclat ! 
Oh ! Time has plucked that ])lumy brow ; 
And none engage at turneys now 

liXit those that go to law. 

Where are those old and feudal clans, 
Their ])ikes, and bills, and jjartisans, 

Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs ? 
A battle was a battle then, 
A breathing piece of work : but men 

Fight now with powder puffs! 

The curtal-axe is out of date ! 

The good old cross-bow bends to Fate ; 

'Tis gone the archer's craft ! 
Xo tough arm bends the springing yew, 
And jolly draymen ride — in lieu 

Of Death — upon the shaft. 

In cavils when will cavaliers 
Set ringing helmets by the esC- 
And scatter plunu'S about f 



Or blood — if they are in the vein ? 
That tap will never run again : 
Alas ! the casque is out ! 

ISTo iron crackling now is scored, 
By dint of battle-axe and sword, 

To find a vital place : 
Though certain doctors still pretend, 
Awhile before they kill a friend, 

To labor through his case ! 

Farewell, then, j.ncieiit men of might- 
Crusader, errant squire, and knight ! 

Our coats and customs, soften. 
To rise would only make you weep : 
Sleep on in rusty iron, sleep 

As in a safety coffin ! 

MISS kilmansegg's advent. 
To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree, 
To the very root of the family tree. 

Were a task as rash as ridiculous : 
Through antediluvian mists as thick 
As a London fog such a line to pick 
Were enough, in truth, to puzzle Old Nick, 

Not to name Sir Harris Nicholas. 

It wouldn't require much verbal strain 
To trace the Kill-man, perchance to Cain; 
But waiving all such digressions, 
Suffice it, according to family lore, 
A Patriarch Kilmansegg lived of yore 
Who was famed for his great possessions. 

Gold ! and gold ! and gold withoxit end ! 
He had gtild to lay by, and gold to spend, 
Gold to give and gold to lend, 

And reversions of gold infuturo. 
In wealth the family revelled and rolled, 
Himself and wife and sons so bold ; 
And his daughters sang to their harps of 

O bella era deV orof. . . . 

What different dooms our birtbdays bring! 
For iiisfancc, one little manikin thing! 
Survives to wear many a wrinkle j 


NN'liilc (loath forbids another to wake 
And ;i son that took nine moons to make 
Expires without even a twinkle. 

One is littered under a roof 
Neither wind nor water proof — 

That's the prose of Love in a Cottage — 
A puny, naked, shivering wretch, 
The whole of whose birthright woidd not 

Though liobbins himself drew up the skrtcli, 

The bid of a " mess of 2)ottagc." 

]>orn of Fortunatus's Icin, 
Another comes tenderly ushered in 

Tola prospect all bright and burnished: 
No tenant he for life's back slums. 
He comes to the world as a gentleman comes 

To a lodging ready furnished, 

And the other sex — the tender — the fair — 

What wide revei'ses of fate are tlicn* ! 

Whilst JNIargaret, charmed by the IJulbul rare, 

In a garden of Gul reposes, 
Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to 

She hates the smell of roses ! 

Not so with the infant Kilmansegg! 
She was not born to steal or beg, 

Or gather cresses in ditches ; 
To plait the straw, or bind the shoe, 
Or sit all day to hem and sew, 
As females must, and not a few, 

To fill their insides with stitches. 

She was one of those who by Fortune's boon 
Are born, as they say, with a silver spoon 

In her mouth, not a wooden ladle : 
To sjjeak according to poet's wont, 
l*lutus as sponsor stood at her font, 

And Midas rocked the cradle. 

At her debut she found her head 
On a pillow of down, in a downy bed, 
With a damask canopy over ; 



For although by the vulgar popular saw, 
All mothers are said to be " in the straw," 
Some children are born in clover .... 

Like other babes, at her birth she cried ; 
Which made a sensation far and wide, 

Ay, for twenty miles around her ; 
For though to the ear 'twas nothing more 
Than an infaiit's squall, it was really the roar 
Of a fifty thousand pounder ; 
It shook the next heir 
In his library chair, 
And made him cr}', " confound her !"'... 

O, happy hope of the Kilmanseggs ! 
Thrice happy in head, and body, and legs, 

That hvv parents had such full j)()ckets ! 
For had she been born of want and thrift 
For care and nursing all adrift, 
It is ten to one she had had to make shift 

With rickets instead of rockets ! . , . . 

And when she took to squall and kick — 
Fur pain will wring aiul pins will prick 

Even the wealthiest nabob's (hiuglitcr — 
They gave her no vulgar Dally or gin, 
But liquor with leaf of gold tlierein, 

Videlicet — Dantzic Water. 

In short, she was born, and bred, and nurst, 
And drest in the best from the very first, 

To ])lease the genteelest censor ; 
And then, as soon as strength would allow. 
Was vaccinated, as babies are now, 
With virus ta'en from tlu^ best-bred cow 

Of Lord Althorpe's — now Earl Spenser. 


The mooji — the moon, so silver and cold — 
Jler lickle temper has oft been told, 

Now shady, now bright and sunny ; 
But, of all tbe lunar tilings that change, 
The one that shows most lickle and strange 
And takes the most eccentric range, 

Is the moon — so-called— of honey I 



To suine a full-^rnwn orl) rcvcalt'd. 

As big ami as roiiiul as ISTorval's sliicid, 

Ami as hriglii, as a Kunicr JJudf-liglitcd ; 
To others as dull, and dingy, and daiup 
As any oleaginous lani]>, 
Of tlie rcgnlar old parochial stamp, 

Jn a London fog benighted. 

To the loving, a bright and (Constant s]»h('re, 
That makes earth's commonest things ap[tear 

All poetic, romantic, and tender; 
Hanging with jewels a cabbage-stump, 
And investing a common post or a |Hinip, 
A curraiit-ljush or gooseberry-clumj), 

With a halo of dreamlike splendor. 

For all is briglit, and l)eautoous, and clear, 
And tlie meanest thing most precious and dear 

When tlie magic of lov(! is present : 
Love that lends a sweetm^ss and grace 
To the humblest spot and the plaiiw^st face ; 
That turns Wilderness Ivow into Paradise I'lace, 

And Garlic Hill to Mount I'Icasant. 

]jove that sweetens sugarless tea, 
And makes contentment and joy agree 

With the coarsest boarding and Ijedding; 
Love, that no gold(»n ties can attach, 
]^>ut nestles under the humblest thatch. 
And will Hy away from an emperor's matcli 

To dance at a penny wedding ! 

(), happ3', happy, thrice happy state, 
When such a bright [)lanet governs the fate 

Of a pair of united lovers ! 
'Tis theirs in spite of tlie serpent's hiss, 
To enjoy the pure primeval kiss 
With as much of the old original bliss 

As mortality ever recovers. 


Gold ! gold ! gold ! gold !— 
Bright and yellow, hard and cold. 
Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled; 
Heavy to get, and light to hold ; 
Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold: 



Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled ; 
Spurned by the ^-oung, but liugged by tlie old. 
To the very verge of the churchyard mould; 
I'rice of many a crime untold ; 
Gold ! gold ! gold ! gold ! 
Good or bad a thousand-fold ! 

How widely its agencies vary 
To save — to ruin — tu curse — to bless — 
As even its minted coins express. 
Now stamped with the images of Good Queen 
15 ess, 

And now of a IJloody Mary. 
3fiss Jviltn(f/ise</[/ mid her Precious Leg. 


No sun — no moon — 

No morn — no noon — 
No dawn — no dusk — no projier time of daj' — 

No sky — no earthly view — 

No distance looking blue — 
No road— no street — no " other side the way" — 

No end to any Row — 

No indications where the Crescents go — 
No top to any steeple — 
No recognitions of familiar people — 

No courtesies for showing 'em — 

No knowing 'em — 
No travelling at all — no locomotion — 
No inkling of the way — no notion — 
"No go," by land or ocean — 

No mail — no post — 

No news from any foreign coast — 
No Park — no King — no afternoon gentility — 
No company — no nobility — 
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful case — 

No foml'ortahle feci in any nu'inber — 
No shade — no shine — no butterHies — no bees-^ 
No fruits — no tlowers — no leaves — no trees — 

November ! 


And has the earth lost its spacious round, 
The sky its blue ciix-umference above 


THOMAS noon.— 11 

That in this little cliaml)er there is fouiul 

Both earth aiul heaven — my universe of 
love ! 

All that my God can give me or remove, 
Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death. 

Sweet that in this small t^ompass I behoove 
To live their living and to breathe their 
breath ! 

Almost I wish that with one common sigh 
We might resign all numdane care and strife, 

Aiid seek together that transcendent sky 
Where father, mother, children, husband, wife 

Together pant in everlasting life ! 


We watched her breathing through the night. 

Her lireathiiig soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers, 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied : 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad, 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed; she had 

Another morn than ours. 


A spade ! a rake ! a hoe ; a pickaxe or a bill ! 
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, a Hail, or 

what ye will : 
And here's a ready hand to plv the needful 

Andskilled enough, by lessons rough, in Jjabor's 

rugged school. 

To hedge, or dig the ditch, to lop or fell the 



To lay tlie swarth on the sultry field, or plough 

the stubborn lea ; 
The harvest stack to bind, the wheaten rick to 

And never fear in my pouch to find the tinder 

or the match 

A spade ! a rake ! a hoe, a pickaxe or a bill ! 
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, a liail or 

what ye will : 
The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash, the 

market-team to drive, 
Or mend the fence by the cover-side, and leave 

the game alive. 

Ay, only give me work and then you need not 

That I shall snare his Worship's hare, or kite 

his Grace's deer ; 
Break into his Lordship's house, to steal the 

plate so rich ; 
Or leave the yeoman that had a purse to 

welter in the ditch. 

My only claim is this, with labor stiff and 

By lawful turn my living to earn, between the 

light and dark ; 
My daily bread and nightly bed, my bacon, and 

drop of beer : 
But all from the man that holds the land, and 

none from the overseer ! 

No parish money or loaf, no pauper badges for 

me ; — 
A son of the soil by right of toil entitled to my 

No alms I ask, give me my task; here are the 

:iriii, the leg, 
The Ktrcngth, the sinews of a man, to work, 

and not to beg. 

Si ill one of Adam's heirs, though (loomed by 

chance of birth 
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean instead 

of the fat of the eartli ; 


To make such liumMc iiu'iil.s us Imncst labor 

can — 
A bone and a crust, with a grace to GoJ, and 

little thanks to man ! 
A spade ! a rake ! a hoo ! a pickaxe, or a bill ! 
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow, a ihiil, or 

what ye will : — 
AVhatevor the tool to pi}', here is a willing 

With muscle and limb — and woe to him who 

does their pay begrudge ! 


With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags 

Plj'ing her needle and thread. — 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 

She sang the Song of tlie Shirt : — 

Work ! work ! work ! 
While the cock is crowing aloof! 

And W(irk — work — work. 
Till the stars shine through the roof! 

It's O ! to be a slave 
Along with the barbarous Turk, 

AV^here woman has never a soul to save, 
If this is Christian work ! 

Work — work — work, 
Till the brain begins to swim ! 

Work — work — work, 
Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
And sew them on in a dream ! 

0, men, with sisters dear ! 
O, men, with motlua-s and wives I 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 

]^ut human creatures' lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch 


In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
Sewing at once with a double thready 
A shroud as well as a shirt ! 

But why do I talk of Death ? 

That phantom of grisly bone ; 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like ni}- own : 

It seems so like mj^ own, 
Because of the fasts I keep ; — 

0, God ! that bread should be so dear 
And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags ; 
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread, and rags ! 
That shattered roof, and this naked floor, 

A table, a broken chair, 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thauk 

For sometimes falling there. 

Work — work — work ! 

From weary chime to chime ; 
Work — work — work. 

As prisoners work for crime ! 
Band and gusset, and scam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed. 

As well as the weary hand. 

Work — work — work, 

In the dull Deceml)er light. 
And work — work — work, 

Wluui the weather is warm and bright ; 
While underneath the eaves 

Tlie brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their [)retty backs, 

And twit me with the Spring. 

Oh ! but to breath the bi-eath 
Of the cowslip and primroses sweet j 

Witli tlie sky above my head, 
And the grass beneath my feet, 

For only one short liour 
To feel as 1 used to feel, 



Before T knew the woes of wiiiit, 
And the walk that costs a meal ! 

! but for one short hour ! 

A respite however brief ! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for fjrief ! 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for ever}'^ drop 

Hinders needle and thread ! — 

With fingers weary and worn, 

AVith eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

riying her needle and thread. 
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich — 

She sang this Song of the Shirt ! 

Thomas Hood, the only son of the pre- 
ceding, was born in 1835, and died in 
1874. He was educated at Pembroke 
College, Oxford, and made literature his 
profession. He contributed to periodicals, 
edited various collections of tlie works of 
liis father, to some of which he furnished 
illustrations, and in 18G5 became editor of 
the comic periodical Fun. He wrote sev- 
eral works in ])r()se and verse, taking his 
father as his model. Francis Fkeeling 
(Brodkrick), the daughter of Thomas 
Hood the elder, was also the author of 
several works, and in conjunction with her 
brother prepared a Memorial of their 


HOOK, Theodore Edward, an Eng- 
lish wit and author, born in 1788 ; died in 
1841. He was educated at Harrow. His 
mother died when he was fourteen 3'ears 
okl. His father, a musical composer, de- 
lighted in exhibiting the boy's extraordi- 
nary talent for improvisation and mimicry. 
In 1805 he produced a comic opera. The 
Soldier s Return, wliich instantly became 
popular. Catch Him ^Yho Can, a musical 
farce (1806), completed his conquest of 
the public. His brotlier, a clergyman, en- 
deavored to induce him to quit the stage 
for college, and liad him entered as a stu- 
dent at Oxford ; but vaiid)- looked for him 
there. For ten years he gave himself to 
the pleasures of London life, and was the 
wonder of the town. His power of impro- 
vising witty verses, applicable to everyone 
he met, never failed. His practical jokes 
were inexhaustible. In 1812 the Prince 
Regent appointed him Accountant-Gen- 
eral and 'rreasnrer of the Colony of Mau- 
ritius, with a salary of ,£2,000 a year. In 
1817 his accounts were examined, and a 
deficiency of Xl 2,000 being discovered. 
Hook was arrested, and sent home. It 
was found that a deputy-official was guilty 
of the theft ; but as it was the result of 
Hook's neglect of duty, lie was held re- 
sponsible. He innnediatcly began to write 
for })eriodi('als. ]n 1820 he issued [\\v. lirst 
number of the Tory ])ap(jr. The John Bull, 
which attained a wide cii'culation, and 
brought liim a large income, lint as he 
made no attempt to repay Ins di^bt to tlie 
(Jovernnient, he was again anested, and was 
imprisoned for sevei'al months. Between 
1.S21 and 1841 he ].ublishcd thirty-eight 
volumes, edited the John Bull weekly, and 


for some years The New Month! i/ Mnjidzhie. 
lie died worn out with dissipalioii. Among 
his farces, melodramas, and comedies are 
The Invisible Girl (1806), Trial hy Jury, 
and DarknoiH Vii<ihle (1811), UxcJiaiii/e no 
RohhiTi/ and Tcutanwn (1820.) Some of 
his other publications are >Sa)/i)i/ji< and Do- 
inys, three series (1824-28.) Maxwell, re- 
garded as his best novel (1830), The Par- 
S071S Daic(/hter (1833), Gilbert Gurney 
(1835), Jack Brag (1837), Gurney Mar- 
ried (1839), Counin Geoffrey, the Old 
Bachelor (1840), Father and tSons (1841.) 


In a family hke ]\rr. Palmer's the non-arrival 
of the '*■ company " would have heeu a severe 
disappointment. Mrs. Overall was known to bo 
a lady of fortune, used to everything "nice and 
comfortable ; " she kept her own carriage, her 
men-servants, and all that ; and, therefore, they 
must be very particuhir, and have everything 
uncommoidy nice for her, and so Mr. Palmer 
the night before had a white basin of hot water 
up into the parlor to bleach almonds, with which 
to stick a "tipsy cake," after the fashion of a 
hedgehog, and Mrs. Palmer sent to the pastry 
cook's for some raspberry jam, to make creams 
in little jelly-glasses, looking like inverted ex- 
tinguishers ; and spent half the morning in 
whipping up froth with a caue-whisk to put 
on their tops like sliining hUher. And Miss 
Palmer cut bits of pai)er, ami curled them with 
the scissors to put round tlie " wax ends " iu 
the glass lustres on tlic chimney-piece : and 
the three-cornered lamp iu the drawing-room 
was taken out of its brown holland bag, and the 
maid set to clean it on a pair of rickety steps ; 
and the cases were taken off the bell-jtulls, and 
the pictures-frames were dusted, ami the covers 
taken off the card-tables all iu honor of the 
approaching fete. 



Then came the agonies of the father, mother, 
and daughter, just about five o'clock of the day 
itself; when the drawing-room chimney smoked, 
and apprehensions assailed them lest the fish 
should be overdone ; the horrors excited by a 
noise in the kitchen as if the cod's head and 
shoulders had tumbled into the sand on the 
floor ; that cod's head and shoulders which Mr. 
Palmer had himself gone to the fishmonger's to 
buy, and in determining the excellence of which 
had poked his fingers into fifty cods, and forty 
turbots, to ascertain which was firmest, freshest, 
and best ; and then the tremor caused by the 
stoppages of different hackney-coaches in the 
neighborhood — not to speak of the smell of 
roasted mutton, which pervaded the whole house, 
intermingled with an occasional whiff of celery, 
attributable to the assiduous care of Mrs. 
Palmer, who always mixed the salad herself, and 
smelt of it all the rest of the day ; the disagree- 
able discovery just made that the lamps on the 
staircase would not burn ; the slight inebriation 
of the cook bringing into full play a latent 
animosity towards the housemaid, founded on 
jealousy, and soothed by the mediation of the 
neighboring green-grocer, hired for five shil- 
lings to wait at table on the great occasion. 

Just as the jNIajor an<l Mrs. Overall actually 
drove up, the said attendant green-grocer, the 
male Pomona of the neighborhood, had just 
stepped out to the public house to fetch ^' the 
porter." The door was of course opened by 
tlie housenniid. The afternoon being windy, the 
tallow candle which she held was instan- 
taneously l)lown out ; at the same instant the 
1ia<!k-kitchon door was blown to with a tremend- 
ous noise, occasioning, by the concussion, the 
fall of a i)ile of plates, put on the dresser ready 
to be carried up into the parlor, and the over- 
tlirow of a modicum of oysters in a blue basin, 
which were subsc(|tu'ntly, hut with dilliculty, 
gathered up individuiill y from the lloor by tlio 
lianda of the cook, and converted in due season 



into sauc»', f(»r the before-meiitioiK.Ml co<r.s lioad 
aiul slumldcrs. 

At this momentous crisis, tlio <;rof'ii-<^r()CPr 
(acting waiter) roturnf(l witli two jtots of 
Mi'ux and C'o.'s Kntirc, upon tlio tops of which 
stood lieads imta littli? rcscnihliiig th(> wliippcd 
stuff ujxui the rasphcrry creams — open goes 
tlie door again, puft' goes tlio wind, and off go 
the " lieads "' of tlic porter-pots into tlie faces 
of the refine(l Major Overall and his adorable 
bride, who was disrobing at the foot of tli(f stairs. 

The Major, who was a man of the world, and 
had seen society in all its grades, borethe pelting 
of this pitiless storm with magnanimity and 
withoitt surprise ; but Jane, whose sphere of mo- 
tion liad been somewhat more limited, and who 
liad encountered very littlevariety either of scen- 
ery or action, beyond the every da^' routine of a 
(juiet country house, eidivened periodii'ally by 
a six weeks' trip to London, was somewhat as- 
tonndcMl at the noise and confusion, the bang- 
ing of doors, the clattering of cro(!kery, and the 
confusion of tongues, which the untimely ar- 
rival of the company and the porteratthe same 
time had oiN^asioned. Nor was the confusion less 
confounded b}^ the thundering double-knock of 
Mr. Olinthus Crackenthorpe, of llolborn Court, 
Gray's Inn, who followed the beer (which, as 
Sliakespeare has it, " was at the door ") as 
gravely and methodically as an iindertaker. 

Up the precipitous and narrow staircase were 
the Major and Mrs. Overall ushered, she having 
been divested of her sliawl and boa by tho 
houscMuaid, who threw her "things" into a 
dark hole ycleped the back-parlor, where boots 
andumbrellas, a washing-stand, the canvas bag 
of the drawing-room lamp, the table-covers 
and "master's" great-coats, were all liuddled 
in one grand miscellany. Just as the little 
j)rocession was on the point of climbing, 
1 rollingsworth, the waiter, coming in, feeling 
the absolute necessity of announcing all tho 
company himself, sets down the porter-pots upon 
2'6 -^53 


the mats in the passage, nearly pushes down 
the housemaid, who was about to usurp his 
place, and who in her anxiety to please Mr. 
Crackenthorpe (who was what she called a 
" nice gentleman '"), abandons her position at 
the staircase, and ilies to the door for the pur- 
pose of admitting him. In her zeal and 
activity to achieve this feat, she unfortunately 
upsets one of the porter-pots and inundates the 
little passage, miscalled the hall, with a sweep- 
ing tlood of the afore-mentioned mixture 
of Messrs. Meux and Co. 

Miss Engelhart of Bernard Street, Russell 
Square, who had been invited to meet the 
smart folks, because she was a smart person 
lierself, arrived shortly after ; indeed, so 
rapidly did she, like Ilughy, follow Mr. Cracken- 
thorpe's heels, that he had but just time to de- 
posit his great-coat and goloshes (in which he 
had walked from chambers) in the black-hole 
where everything was thrust, Ix'fore the lovely 
Charlotte made lier appearance. Here, then, 
at length, was the snug little party assembled, 
and dinner was forthwith ordered. — Jlaxwell. 


HOOKER, IIeuman, nn Americiui cler- 
gyman and anllior, born at Poultney, Vt., 
in 1804; died at Philadelphia in 1865. He 
graduated at Middlebnry College in 1825 ; 
studied theology at Priueeton, and was li- 
censed to preach as a Presbyterian clergy- 
man ; but subsequently took orders in the 
Episcoi)al Church. Failing health coni- 
])elled him to retire from tiie ministerial 
olliee, and he became a bookseller in Phil- 
adel]»hia, devoting also much of his time 
to literary pursuits. He made the Nashote 
Seminary his residuary legatee, the insti- 
tution" thus receiving about lS'10,000. His 
])rincipal works ai'e : The Portion of the 
Soul (1835), Popular IniideVtu (1836), 
The Uses of AdversUij (184("),) Tlmwjhtsand 
3Iax'nns (ISIT), The Christian Life a Fijht 
of Faith (1818.) 


Lot us conteinplatft tlie capaoitios and re- 
sources of love us applied to tlie experience of 
life. Property and business may fail, and still 
tlie eye of hope may fix itself on other objects, 
and confidence may strengthen itself in other 
schemes ; but when death enters into our 
faniil}', and loved ones are missing from our 
sight, though God niay have made their bed 
in sickness, and cstabUshed their hope in death, 
nothing can tlien relieve us but trust and love. 
I'liilosopby and pleasure do but intrude upon 
and aggravate our grief. lUit love, the liglit 
of God, may chase awa}' the gloom of this hour, 
and start uji in the soul trusts, which give tlie 
A'ictory over ourselves. The harp of the spirit, 
though its chords be torn, never yields such 
sweet notes, such swelling harmony, as when 
the world can draw no music from it. How 
often do we sec strokes fall on the heart, whicli 
it woidd be but mocker^'^ for man to attempt to 
i-elieve, and which get severed to unlock the 
treasures of that heart, and reveal a sweetness 



to it which it liad not known before. See that 
mother ! She loves and mourns as none but a 
mother can. Behold the greatness and the 
sweetness of her grief ! Her child is dead, and 
she says, " It is well with me, and it is well 
with my child. It is well because God has 
taken him. He has said, ' Of such is the 
Kingdom of heaven' — that He ' doth not 
willingly afflict,' and I know it must be well." 
Can there be any greatness greater than this ? 
Did ever any prince at the head of invincible 
armies win a victory like it ? Her heart is 
in heaviness, and her home is desolated ; but 
she has been to her heavenly Father, and un- 
bosomed her griefs before Him. There is 
peace on her saddened countenance, peace in 
her gentle words ; the peace of God has come 
down, and is filling her trusting soul. 

If there is anything about us which good 
hearts will reverence, it is our grief on the 
loss of those we love. It is a condition in 
which we seem to be smitten by a Divine 
hand, and thus made sacred. It is a grief, 
too, which greatly enriches the heart, when 
rightly borne. There may be no rebellion of 
the will, the sweetest sentiments toward God 
and our fellow-beings may be deepened, and 
still the desolation caused in the treasured 
sympathies and hopes of the heart gives a new 
color to the entire scene of life. The dear 
affections whi(^h grew out of the consanguinities 
and connections of life — next to those we owo 
to God — are the most sacred of our being ; and 
if the hojH's and revelations of a future state 
did not come to our aid, our grief would be 
iiniuod(u-ate and inconsolaMe when these rela- 
tions are broken by death. I5ut we are not 
left to sorrow in darkness. Death is :is the 
f<u'<'sli:idowing of life. Wo die that we may 
<lit' Mu more. So short, too, is our life here— a 
mortal life at best — and so endless is the life 
on which we enter at death — an ininiurtal lifi' 
— that the consideration may well moderate 
our .>iorruw at parting. — 7'hc Unes of AdocrHty, 


HOOKER, JoSErH Dalton, an English 
botanist and antlior, ])()rn in Suffolk in 
1817. He was the son of Sir William 
Jackson Hooker, Regius Professor of Bot- 
any in Glasgow University, and hiter 
Director of the Kew Gardens. He was 
educated in the High School and Univer- 
sity of Glasgow, and in 183t) received the 
degree of M. D. He then accompanied 
the Antartie expedition, commanded by 
Sir James Ross, for the investigation of 
the plienomena of terrestrial magnetism 
near the south pole. In 1846 he was ap- 
pointed botanist to the Geological Survey 
of Great liritain. The next year he set 
out for the Himalayas, to investigate the 
plants of tropical countries. This expedi- 
tion occupied nearly four years. In 1855 
lie became Assistant Director of the Kew 
Gardens, and ten years afterwards suc- 
ceeded his father as director. He travelled 
in Syiia, Morocco, and the United States, 
and in 1878 published a Journal of a Tour 
in Morocco and the 6rreat Atlas. His other 
works are Botany of the Antarctic Voyayc 
(6 vols., l<S47-<)0), Rhododendrons of the 
iSikk im-lUni a I a //a (1819-5 1 ) , Himalayan 
Jour7iaU (1854), Crenera Plantaruni (18t)!2), 
TJie Students Flora of the British Isles 
(1870), and The Flora of British India 

The East IihIIu Company grunt licences for 
tilt' cult ivat iou of the 2)oppy, and contract for 
all tlic ])ro(luco at certain rates varying with 
the (jualit}-. iSo opium can be grown witliout 
this licence, and an advance ecpial to about 
two-thirds of tlie value of the produce is made 
to the grower. This produce is made over to 
district collectors, wlio approximately fix tho 



worth of tlie contents of each jar, and forward 
it to Patna, where rewards are given for the 
best samples, and the worst are condemned 
without payment ; but all is turned to some 
account in the reduction of the drug to a lit 
state for the market. 

The poppy flowers in the end of January 
and beginning of February, and the capsules 
are sliced in February and March with a little 
instrument like a saw, made of three iron 
plates with jagged edges tied together. The 
cultivation is very carefully conducted, nor are 
there any very apparent means of improving 
this branch of commerce and revenue. During 
the north-west or dr}'' winds, the best opium is 
procured, the worst during the moist, or east 
and north-east, when the drug imbibes moist- 
ure, and a watery bad solution of opium col- 
lects in cavities of its substance, and is called 
passetoa, according to the absence of Avhich 
the opium is generally prized. 

At the end of Marcli the opium-jars arrive 
at the stores by water and by land, and con- 
tinue accumulating for some weeks. Every 
jar is labelled and stowed in a proper place, 
sej)arately tested with extreme accuracy, and ■ 
valued. When the whole quantity has been 
received, the contents of all the jars arc thrown 
into great vats, occupying a very large build- 
ing, whence the mass is distributed, to be 
made up into balls for the markets. This 
operation is carried on in a long paved room, 
where every man is ticketed, and many over- 
seers are stationed to see that tlie work is ])rop- 
erly conducted. Each workman sits on a stool, 
with a double stage and a tray before him. 
On the top stage in a tin basin, containing 
opium ejiongli for three balls ; in the lower an- 
other basin, holding water ; in the tray stands 
a brass heniis])lK'riral cu]), in which the ball is 
worke<l. To the man's right hand is anotlier 
tray with two compartments, one containing 
thin " pancakes " of poppy-petals ])rcssed to- 


getlier, tlu; otluT a cui)ful of sticky opium- 
water, made fium refuse o[>iiim, Tlie man 
takes the brass cup, and places a pancake at 
tlie bottom, smears it witli opium-water, and 
with many plies of the ])ancakes makes a coat 
for the opium. Of this he takes about one 
third of the mass l)efore him, puts it inside the 
petals, and agglutinates many other coats over 
it : the balls are then again weighed, and re- 
duced or increased to a certain weight if neces- 
sary. At the day's end, each man takes his 
work to a rack with jiumbercd compartments, 
and deposits it in that which answers to its 
own number; thence the balls (each being put 
in a clay cup) are carried to an enormous dry- 
ing-room, where they are expensed in tiers, and 
constantly examined and turned, to prevent 
their being attacked by weevils, whii^h are very 
prevalent during moist winds, little boys creep- 
ing along the racks all day long for this pur- 
pose. When dry, the balls are packed in two 
layers of six each in cliests, with the stalks, 
dried leaves, and capsules of the plant, and 
sent down to Calcutta. A little opium is pre- 
pared of very fine quality for the Government 
Hospitals, and some for general sale in India ; 
but the proportion is trifling, and such is made 
up into square cakes. A good workman will 
prepare from thirty to fiftv balls in a day, the 
total produce being 10,0()() to 12,000 a\lay ; 
during one working season 1,353,000 balls are 
manufactured for the Chinese market alone. 

The poppy-p(!tal pancakes, each about a foot 
radius, are made in the fields by women, by 
the simple operation of pressing the fresh 
petals together. They are brought in large 
baskets, and purchased at the commencement 
of the season. The liquor with wliich the pan- 
cakes are agglutinated together by the ball- 
maker, and worked into the ball, is merely in- 
spissated opium-water, the opium for which is 
derived from the condemned opium (passcwa) 
the washing of the utensils and of the work- 



men, every one of whom is nightly laved be- 
fore he leaves the establishment, and the water 
is inspissated. Thus uot a particle of opium 
is lost. To encourage the farmers, the refuse 
stalks, leaves, and heads are bought up to pack 
the balls with ; but this is far from an econo- 
mical plan, for it is diflicult to keep the refuse 
from damp and insects. — Himalayan Jour- 


While my men encamped on a very narrow 
ridge, I ascended a rocky summit, composed of 
great blocks of gneiss, from which I obtained 
a superb view to the westward. Immediately 
Ixdow a fearfully sudden descent ran the 
Daomy river, bounded on the opposite side by 
another parallel ridge of Sakkrazung, enclosing 
Avith that on which I stood, a gulf from GOOO 
to 7000 feet deep, of wooded ridges, which, as 
it were, radiated outwards as they ascended up- 
wards in rocky spurs to the pine-clad peaks 
around. To tlie south-west in the extreme 
distance, were the boundless plains of India, 
upwards of one hundred miles off, with the 
Cosi meandering through them like a silver 

The lirmament appeared of a pale blue, and 
a broad low arch spanned the horizon, bounded 
by a line of little fleecy clouds (viout07is) ; 
below this the sky was of a golden yellow, 
while in successivel_y deeper strata, many belts 
or ril)bons of vapor a])pearcd to press upon the 
plains, the lowc^st of which was of a dark leaden 
hue, the upper more purple, and vanishing into 
the ])ale yellow above. Though well dehiied, 
there was no abru])t division between the Ix^lts 
and the lowest mingled impereepl ibly with the 
liazy horizon. Gradually the golden lines 
grew dim, and the blues and purples gained 
depth of color; till th(> sun set behind the 
dark-bbie peaked mountains in a flood of crim- 
Bon and purple, sending broad beama of gray 


josEiMr i).\i/r<')X irooKKij.— ;> 

shade and |Mirii]c li.L^lit up to tlic zcnitli, imd 
all around. As evening advanced, a .sudden 
fliill .'succeeded, and inists rapidly formed im- 
mediately l»cli)\v me in little isolated clouds, 
which (;oal('sccd and spread out like a heaving 
and rolling sea, leaving nothing ah(»ve their 
surface but the ridges ami .spurs of the adjacent 
mountains. These rose like capes, promon- 
tories, and islands of the darkest leaden hue, 
bristling with pines, and advancing boldly into 
the snowy white ocean, or starting from its 
bed in the strongest relief. As darkness came 
on, and the stars arose, a light fog gathered 
roui}.d me, and I qiiitted with i-eluctance one 
of the most inipri'ssive and magic scenes I ever 

iieturning to my tent, 1 was interested in 
observing liow well my followers had accommo- 
dated themse]v(>s to their narrow circumstances. 
Their fires gleaiued everywhere amongst the 
trees, and the people, broken up into groups of 
five, presented an interesting picture; of native, 
savage, and half civilized life. I wandered 
amongst them in the darkness, ami watched 
unseen their operations; some were cooking, 
with their rude Itronzed faces lighted up by 
the ruddy glow as they peered into the pot, 
stirring the boiling rice with one hand, while 
with the other they held back their long 
tangled hair. ( )thers were bringing water 
from the spring below, some gathering sprigs 
of fragrant Artemcsia and other shrubs to 
form couches — .some lopj)ing branches of larger 
trees to screen them from nocturnal radiation ; 
their only protection from the dew being such 
branches stuck in the ground, and slanting 
over their procumbent forms. The IJhotaneso 
were rude and boisterous in their pursuits, 
constantly comphiining to the Sirdars, and 
wrangling over their meals. The Ghorkas 
were sprightly, combing their raven hair, tell- 
ing interminalily long stories, of which moni-y 
was the burthen, or singing Hindoo songs 


through their noses in chorus ; and being 
heater and better dressed, and having a servant 
to cook their food, they seemed quite tlie 
gentlemen of the party. Still the Lepcha was 
the most attractive, the least restrained, and 
the most natural in all his actions, the simplest 
in his wants and appliances, with a bamboo as 
his water-jug, an earthen pot as his kettle, and 
all manner of herbs collected during the days' 
march to tiavor his food. — Jlimalayan Jour- 



HOOKER, RrcHAiiD, an English divine, 
born in 1553 ; died in 1600. lie ])ecame 
a Scholar of Corpus Christi College, Ox- 
ford, in 1573, a Eellow and Master of Arts, 
in 1577, and I)e{)uty Professor of Hebrew 
in 1571>. He married a "woman who turn- 
ed out to be a great shrew, resigned his 
Fellowship in the College, and was in 
1584 presented to a living in Buckingham- 
shire. In 1585 he received the Master- 
ship of the Temple in London. His col- 
league was Walter Travers, who tended 
toward Arminianisni, while he held to the 
Calvinistic theory. In order to " unbe- 
guile and win over Mr. Travers's judg- 
ment. Hooker designed to write a treatise 
of the Church's power to make canons for 
the use of ceremonies, and by law to im- 
})ose an obedience to them as upon her 
child reu." To gain the requisite leisure 
for the preparation of this work, he re- 
quested to be transferred to some country 
parsonage ; and in 1591 was presented to 
the rectorage of Boscombe, in Wiltshire, 
and in the following year to that of 
Bishopsbourne, in Kent, where the re- 
mainder of his life was passed. The first 
four books of the JiJcclesiastical Polity 
Avere published in 1594 ; the last four 
books were published at intervals, three of 
them after Hooker's death. The sixth 
book is lost — that which passes for it not 
being genuine ; and the eighth book ap- 
pears to be incomplete. An edition of 
his works, arranged by John Keble, was 
issued in 1845. The Life of Hooker has 
been written by Izaak Walton (1G65.) 


That wliich luitli greatest force in the very 


lilCflAHD HOOKER.— 2 

things we see, is, notwithstanding, itself often- 
times not seen. The stateliness of houses, the 
goodliness of trees, when we behold them, de- 
lighteth the eye ; but that foundation which 
beareth up the one, that root which rainistereth 
unto the other nourishment and life, is in the 
bosom of the earth concealed ; and if there be 
at any time occasion to search into it, such 
labor is then more necessary than pleasant, 
both to them which undertalvB it, and for the 
lookers on. In like manner the vise and bene- 
fit of good laws ; all that live under them may 
enjoy with delight and comfort, albeit the 
grounds and first original causes from whence 
they have sprung be unknown, as to the greatest 
part of men they are. But when they who 
withdraw their obedience j)retend that the laws 
which they should obey are corrupt and vicious, 
for better examination of their quality, it be- 
hoveth the very foundation and root, the highest 
well-spring and fountain of them, to be dis- 
covered. Which, because we are not oftentimes 
accustomed to do, when we do it, the pains we 
take are moi-e needful a great deal than accept- 
able : and the matters which we handle seem, 
by reason of newness (till the mind grow better 
acquainted with them), dark, intritjate, and un- 

And because the point about which we strive 
is the (piality of our laws, our first entrance 
hereinto cannot better be made than with con- 
sideration of the nature of law in giMieral. All 
tilings that are have sonu! oj»eratioii not violent 
or casuid. Neither doth anything ever begin 
to exercise the same without somi^ fore-con- 
ceived end for which itworketh. A^nd the end 
which it worketh for is not obtained, unless 
the work be also fit to obtain it by. For unto 
every end evctry ojieration will not serve. That 
which doth assign unto each thing the kind, 
that which doth moderati; the force and power, 
that which <loth appoint the form and measure 
of working, the same we term a Law. So that 



DO certain end could over lie olitained unless 
the actions wlier('l)y it is obtained were regular, 
that is to say, made suitable, fit, and corre- 
spondent unto their end by some canon, rule, or 

Moses, in describing tlio work of creation, at- 
tributeth speech unto God: "God said, let 
there be light; let there be a firmament; let 
the waters under the lieaven l»e gathered to- 
gether into one place ; let the earth bring forth ; 
let there be liglits in the firmament of heaven." 
Was this only tlie intent of Moses, to signify 
the infinite greatness of God's power by the 
easiness of his accomplishing su<;h effects, with- 
out travail, ])ain or labor ? Surely it seemeth 
that Moses had herein besides this a further 
purpose, namely, first to teach that God did 
not Work as a necessary, liut a voluntary agent, 
intending beforehand and decreeing with ifim- 
self that which did outwardly proceed from 
Ilim ; secondly, to show that (t<xI did then in- 
stitute a law natural to be observed by crea- 
tures, and therefore, according to the manner 
of laws, the institution thereof is described as 
being esijililished by solemn injunction. ]lis 
commanding those things to In^ which are, and 
to be in such sort as they are, to keep that ten- 
ure and course which they do, importeth tin; es- 
tablishment (.f nature's law. This world's first 
creation, and the preservation since of things 
created, what is it but only so far forth a mani- 
festation by execution, what tlie eternal law of 
God is concerning things natural ? 

And as it cometh to pass in a kingdom rightly 
ordered, that after a law is once published it 
presently takes effect far and wide, all states 
framing themselves thereunto; even so let us 
think it fareth in the natural course of tho 
world: since the time that God did first pro- 
claim the edicts of llis law upon it, heaven and 
earth have hearkened unto His voice, and their 
labor hath been to do His will. " Ho made a 
law for the rain, he gave his decree unto tho 


sea, that the water should not pass His com- 
mandment." Now, if nature should intermit 
her course, and leave altogether, though it were 
but for a while, the observation of her own 
laws ; if those principal and mother elements 
of the world, whereof all things in this lower 
world are made, should lose the qualities which 
now they have ; if the frame of that heavenly- 
arch erected over our heads should loosen and 
dissolve itself ; if celestial si^heres should forget 
their wonted motions, and by irregular volubil- 
ities turn themselves any way as it might hap- 
pen ; if the prince of the lights of heaven, 
Avhich now as a giant doth run its unwearied 
course, should, as it were, through a languishing 
faintness, begin to stand and to rest himself ; 
if the moon should wander from her beaten 
wa}' ; the times and seasons of the year blend 
themselves by disordered and confused mixture ; 
the winds ])reathe out their last gasp ; the 
clouds yield no rain; the earth be defeated of 
heavenly influence ; the fruits of the earth pine 
away as children at the withered breasts of 
their mother, no longer able to yield them re- 
lief ; what would become of man himself, whom 
these things now do all serve ? See we not 
plainly that obedience ot creathtes unto the 
law of nature is the stay of the whole worhl ? . . . 
Of law there can be no less acknowledged 
than that her seat is the bosom of God ; lier 
voice the harmony ot the world. All things in 
h(!aven and earth do her homage ; the very 
least as feeling her care, and the greatest as 
not exempted from her jiower. Uoth angels 
and men, and creatures of what condition so- 
ever, though each in different sort and uiaTiner, 
yet all with uniform consent, admiring her as 
tlie mother of (heir peace! and joy. — llJcclesias- 

tical I'ollty. 



HOOKKK, Tjiomas, an Anglo-Ameri- 
can cU'rg3'iuan, born in Leicestershire, 
England, in 158(3 ; died at Hartford, Conn., 
in 1G47. lie graduated at Emmanuel 
College, Cambridge, took Orders, preach- 
ed in London, and in 1026 was chosen 
lecturer at Chelmsford. Having been 
silenced by Laud for non-conformity, he es- 
tablished a grammar-school, in wiiich John 
Eliot, afterwards known as "the Apostle 
of the Indians," was an usher. Being 
still harassed by the ecclesiastical courts, 
he went in IGoO to Holland, where he 
preached at Delft and Kotterdam. In 
1633 he came to New England, with 
John Cotton and Samuel Stone, and 
was settled, with the latter, at what is 
now Cambridge. In 1636 he removed to 
what is now Hartford, Conn., in company 
with a hundred others, among whom was 
Stone, the two being the first pastors of 
the church at Hartford. Hooker was a 
voluminous author, his most important 
sepai-ate work being A S'urvei/ of the 
Summe of Church Disclplwe^ written in 
conjunction with C(»tton (1648.) Some 
two hundred of his Sermons were tran- 
scribed by John Higginson, and sent to 
London, where about half of them were 
published. A 3L'moir of Hooker, by E. W. 
riooker, with selections from his writings, 
was published in 1849. Among the most 
characteristic sermons of Hooker is that 
entitled " The Soul's Humiliation," from 
which the following extracts are taken :— 


Do you think to outbrave tlit- Ahiii<f]ity ? 
Dost thou thiuk to go to heaven tlius Ixdt-up- 
right ? The Lord cannot endure thee here, 


and will he suffer tliee to dwell with himself 
forever in heaven. What, thou to heaven upon 
these terms ? j^ay. How did the Lord deal 
with Lucifer and all those glorious spirits ? 
He sent them all down to hell for their pride. 
The Lord conies out in battle ari-ay against a 
proud person, and singles him out from all the 
rest, and saith, ]jet that drunkard and that 
swearer alone a while, hut let me destroy that 
2>roud heart forever. You shall submit, in spite 
of your teeth, when the great Cxod of heaven 
and earth shall come to execute vengeance. 
There must be sul)jection or else confusion. 
Will you out-brave the Almighty to his face, 
and will you dare damnation '/ As proud as 
you have been crushed and humbled. Where 
are all those Nimrods and Pharaohs, and all 
those mighty monarchs of the world ? The 
Lord hath thrown them flat upon their backs, 
and they are in hell to this day. Judge of the 
torments of hell by some little beginning of it, 
and the dregs of the Lord's vengeance by some 
little sips of it ; and judge how unable thou 
art to bear the whole, by thy inability to bear 
a little of it. When God lays the Hashes of 
lull-tire upon thy soul, thou canst not endure 
it. When the Lord hath let in a little horror 
of lieart into the soul of a poor sinful creature, 
how he is transported with an u)isu]iportablo 
])ur(len, roaring and yelling as if he were in 
hell already. If the di-ops are so heavy, what 
will the sea of God's vengeance be? Thou art 
dead in tres})asses and sins. What istliat? 
A man is wholly possessed with a body of cor- 
ruption, and the spawn of abomination hath 
overspread the whole man. All noisonni lusts 
abound in tin; soul, and take possession of it, 
and rule in it, and are fed there. No carrion 
ill a diteh smells more loaths<iniely in the nos- 
trils of man, than a natural man's works do in 
till' nostrils of the Almighty. Alas, the devil 
bath power over you. As it is with a dea<l 
bhcep, all the carrion-crows in the country come 



to prey upon it, and all base vermin breed and 
oreop tbere ; so it is witli every pour, natural, 
earnal creature under beaven. A company of 
devils, like so many carrion crows, prey upon 
tbe beart, and all l)asf lusts crawl and feed and 
are maintained in sueb a wretcbed beart. . . . 
If v^'i say your bucket sball bel{> you, you 
may starve for tbirst if you let it not down into 
tbe well for water. So, tbou,i,di you brag (^f your 
]»raying, and bearing, and fasting, and of yoiir 
alms, and building of bospitals, and your good 
deeds, if none of tbese tbings bring you to 
Christ, you sluill die for tbirst. 1 do not dis- 
honor those ordinances, but I curse all carnal 
confidence iu them. Hell is full of hearers and 
dissemblers, and canial wretches that never bad 
hearts to seek unto Christ in tbese duties, and 
to see tbe value of a Saviour in them. Dost 
thou think that a few faint prayers, and lazy 
wishes, and a little horror of beart, can phuk a 
<lead man from the grave of bis sins, and a 
damned soul from tbe pit of bell, and change 
the nature of a devil to be a saint? No, it is 
not possible. We are as able to make worlds, 
and to pull hell in pieces as to pull a poor soul 
from the paws of the devil. 


When a poor travelling man comes to the 
ferry, he cries to the other side, " Have over ! 
have over ! " His meaning is be would go to 
the other side by a boat, so is Christ in heaven ; 
but we are here on earth, on tbe other side of 
the river. The ordinances of God are but as 
so many boats to carry us and to land us at 
heaven, where our hopes are, and our bo2)es 
should be. ''Have over! have over!" saith 
the soul. Tbe soul desires to be landed at the 
stairs of mercy, and saith, "() bring me to 
speak with my Saviour ! " Though a man 
shoidd beg his bread from door to door, if he 
can beg ('brist and have it, and beg grace and 
have it, he is the richest man upon earth 

Let us be led by all means into a nearer union 
24 ~ ' 369 


with the Lord Christ. As a wife deals wdth 
the letters of her hu.shand that is in a far coun- 
try, she finds many sweet inklings of his love, 
and she will read these letters often and daily, 
because she would be with her husband a little, 
and have a little parley with him in his pen, 
tliough not in his presence ; so these ordinances 
are but the Lord's love-letters ; and we are the 
embassadors of Christ, and wc bring marvellous 
good news that Christ can save all poor broken- 
hearted sinners in the world. Be content to 
want what God will deny, and to w-ait God's 
good pleasure, and to be at his disposing. 
AVhatsoever can or shall befall you by .the devil 
and his instruments — and if every spire of grass 
were a devil — be humbk'd, and then be above 
all the devils in hell, and all temptations and 
oj)positions. God hath but two tlieories, and 
the humble heart is one. An humble soul, a 
poor soul — a very beggar at the gate of mercy 
— the Lord will not only know him, but he will 
give him such a gracious look as shall make his 
heart dance in his breast. Thou poor Immbled 
soul, the Lord will give thee a glimpse of his 
favor, when thou art tried in thy trouble; and 
when thou lookest up to heaven, the Lord will 
look down upon thee. If there be any soul 
here that is content in truth and sincerity to 
be humbled, and to be at God's disposing, do 
]iot make too much haste to go to heaven. The 
Lord Jesus will come down from heaven, and 
dwell in your hearts. It is with the soul in 
tliis case as it is with a mariner : though his 
hand be upon the oar, yet he ever looks home- 
ward to the heaven where he would be. 


woRTnixaTON hooker.— i 

HOOKER, WoiiTiTiXGTOX, an Ameri- 
can i)liysician and autlior, born in LSOtJ; 
died in 18(>7. lie was edncated at Yale 
College and at the Harvard Medical 
School. In 1852 he was appointed Pro- 
fessor of the Theory and Practice of Medi- 
cine at Yale. He was the author of Phy- 
sician and Patient (1849), Ilomeopafhij : 
an Examination of its Doctritica and Evi- 
dence (1852), Human Physiohr/i/ for Col- 
leqes (1^54}, Mat ional Therapeutics (1857), 
The Child's First Book of Nature (1857), 
The Child's First Book of Common Things 
(1858), First Book of Chemistry, Natural 
History for the Use of Schools and Fami- 
lies, Science for the School and Family 
(1865), and Lessons from the History of 
Medical Delusions. 


This tendency in the system, the existence of 
which is equally recognized hy the professional 
and the non-professional observer, has received 
a variety of names. It is the Phusis of Hippo- 
crates, the Archeus of Van Helinont, tlie Ani- 
ma of Btald, and, the Vis Medicatrix Nattirm 
of Cullen. It has given rise to many erroneous 
ideas, and doctrines, and theories. The doctrine 
of Hippocrates was that disease is a violent 
effort of nature for the l)enetit of the constitu- 
tion to expel a morbific, cause. And to this 
doctrine Hydenliam, who has been sometimes 
called the English Hippocrates, gave his assent. 
This idea in regard to the operation of the cur- 
ative power of nature, it is curious to observe, 
was for the most part practically rejected by 
both of these eminent men at the bedside of the 
sick ; for both made use of such active means 
as bleeding, emetics, and purgatives, in coun- 
teracting some of the operations of disease. In 
regard to this doctrine of Hii))>ocrates, I would 
simply remark, that while some of the opera- 



tions resulting from the curative tendency of 
nature are so commingled with what may be 
strictly termed morbid actions, that it is diffi- 
cult to distinguish them, yet the distinction 
may often be made, and the effort to do so is 
essential in the highest degree to the sltillful 
and rational treatment of disease. Want of 
knowledge and skill on this point is contiinially 
leading physicians to thwart the salutary oper- 
ations of nature, on the one hand, and to neg- 
lect, on the other, to modify or control the 
movemetits of disease. 

The idea of 8tahl was that tlie curative 
power of nature is an immaterial principle, 
added to matter, and thus imparting life to 
what is otherwise passive and inert. Tliis prin- 
ciple, he taught, superintends all the operations 
of the body. It resists the inHuence of all mor- 
]>id causes, and when disease becomes actually 
fixed upon the system, it tends to remove it. 
I need not stop to expose the fallac}"^ of this 
once ])oj)ular theory. Cullen's idea of the T^ts 
Jfedicatn'x Ntilnrm, was, that it is a distinct 
power with which the system is endowed, and 
wliich is absolutely essential to its very consti- 
tution. The error of Cullen consists in going 
beyond the fact, and stating as a doctrine that 
which is a mere conjecture. There is no proof 
that there is any such single distinct power as 
that of which ho speaks. All that has as yet 
been j)roved is tlie bare fact that there is in 
the system a tendency to spontaneous restora- 
tion in case of injury or disease ; and this tend- 
ency may be, and ])robably is, the result of 
various powers combined instead of one alone, 
Tliat such a tendency exists is indisj)utable, 
and it is convenient to have a name for it, 
wbicli shall not be regarded as explanatory of 
tlic nature or cause of the fact indicated, just 
as the term gravitation is merely expressive of 
a general fact, without regard to its nature or 
cause. — Medical Delusiiyns. 


HOOPER, Lucy, an American poet, 
born in Newbiiryport, Mass., in 1X16 ; 
ditMl in 1841. At the age of fourteen she 
removed to Brooklyn, N. Y., and soon be- 
gan to write for periodicals. In 1840 she 
]>nt forth a volume in prose and verse, en- 
titled Scenviifrom Real Life. A collection 
of her Foetical Worki^ was published in 
1848, to which were prefixed tributes by 
Whittier and otliers. 


[Suggested by a picture of, ax he appeared in the 
American camp, after having been treacherous- 
ly inade captive in 1S3S.] 

Not on th(i hattlc'-ficld, 
As when tliy tliousaiui warriors joyed to meet 

Sounding the fierce war-cry, 

Leading tliem forth to die — 
Not tlms, not thus, we greet thee. 

But in a hostile camp, 
Lonely amidst thy foes, 

Thine arrows spent, 

Tliy how nnhent — 
Yet wearing record of thy people's woes. 

Chief ! for thy memories now, 
While the tall palm against this quiet sky 

Her hranches waves, 

And the soft river laves 
The green and flower-crowned banks it wanders 


While in this golden sun 
The burnished rifle gleameth with strange light. 

And sword and spear 

Kest harmless hero 
Yet flash with startling radiance on the sight; 

Wake they thy glance of scorn, 
Thou of the folded arms and aspect stem 

Thoix of the deep low tone, 

For whose rich music gone. 
Kindred and friends alike may vaitdy yearu ? 



Woe for the trusting hour ! 
Oh, kingly stag ! no hand hath brought thee 

'Twas with a patriot's heart, 

Wliere fear usurped no part, 
Thou earnest, a noble offering, and alone. 

For vain yon army's might, 

While for thy band the wide plain owned a tree, 
Or the wild vine's tangled shoots 
On the gnarled oak's mossy roots 

Their trysting-place might be ! 

Woe for th}' hapless fate ! 

Woe for thine evil times and lot, brave chief ! 
Thy sadly closing story. 
Thy short and mournful glorj', 

Tliy high but hopeless struggle, brave and brief ! 

Woe for the bitter stain 
That from our country's banner may not part ! 

Woe for the captive, woe 

For burning pains, and slow, 
Are his who dieth of the fevered heart. 

Oh ! in that spirit-land, 

Where never yet the oppressor's foot hath past, 
Chief, by those sparkling streams, 
Whose beauty mocks our dreams. 

May that high heart have won its rest at last. 



HOOPEIl, Llicv Hamilton (Jnxr.s), 
an American author, born at Phila(lcl[)liia 
in 1835. She was one of the ediloi-.s of 
Jjippincotfn M(((/(tzine until 1870, wlien slic 
took up her residence at Paris, wliere her 
luisband became U. S. Vice Consul-geii- 
erah She lias publisled Poems, with Trans- 
hffions from the Gennan (1864), another 
vohime of Po<'ms (1871), a translation of 
Daudet's Le Nabob (1879), and Under the 
Tricolor, a novel, (1880.) 


Above- the city of Burliu sliincs forth tho sum- 
mer day, 

Aiul near the royal jjalace shout tlie scliool-boys 
at their play. 

Sudden the mit^hty palace gates unclasp their 

portals wide,. 
And forth into the sunshine set; a single hoi-se- 

man ride. 

A bent old man in plain attire ; no glittering 

courtiers wait, 
No armed guards attend tlie steps of Frederick 

the Great ! 

The boys have spied him, and with shouts the 
summer breezes ring, 

The merry urchins haste to greet their well-he- 
loved king. 

Impeding e'en his horse's tread, presses the 

joyous train ; 
And I'russia's despot frowns his best, and shakes 

his stick in vain. 

The frowning look, the angry tone, are feigned, 

full well they know; 
They do not fear his stick — that hand ne'er 

struck a coward blow. 

" Be off to school, you boys ! " he cries. " Ho ! 
ho ! " the laughers say, 



"A i>rctty king you, not to know we've holi.Liv 
to-day ! " ^ 

And so upon tliat summer day, those children 
at his side, 

The symbol of his nation's love, did royal Fred- 
erick ride. 

O Kings ! your thrones are tottering now ! dark 
frowns the hrow of fate ! 

When did you ride as rode that day King Fred- 
erick the Great ? • 


Eyes that out-smiled the morn 

Behind your golden lashes, 
Where are your fires now ? 
Ashes ! 

Cheeks that out-blushed the rose, 

White arms and snowy bust, 
What is your beauty now ? 
Dust ! 


HOPE, Thomas, an Englisli author, 
bom in 1770; died in 1881. His great 
wealth enaljled him to travel for eight 
years in Europe, Asia, and Africa. On 
his return to England lie bought a liouse 
hi London, and one near Dorking, and 
stored them with paintings and statuary. 
In 1807 he })ublished Household Furniture 
and External Decorations^ wliieh produced 
a marked change in the furnishing of 
houses in England. The Costume of the 
Ancients (1809), embellished with 321 
plates, and Designs of Modern Costume 
(1812), was followed in 1819 by a novel, 
Anastasius, or Memoirs of a Modern Greek, 
which was at first attributed to Lord 
Byron, who is said to have declared that 
lie would give two of his most approved 
poems to be its author. An Essay on the 
Orii/in and Prospects o/i^a« (1831), and 
a Historical Essay on Architecture (1837), 
Avere published after his death. The latter 
lias passed through several editions. 


The merit of the new design I luul conceived ; 
tlie wisdom of tlms founding the wliole fubric 
of my eartlily ]iap])iness on my gratilication, 
still continued the ruling theme of my self-ap- 
I)lauding thoughts, when 1 began to discover Scu- 
tari, the principal outpost of the capital on the 
Asiatic shore; and in the neighborhood of that 
city — harshly edging the horizon — the black 
streak of cypresses that mark its immense cem- 
eteries, the last resting-place of those who, 
dying i]i Constantinople, fear that their bones 
may some day be disturljed, if laid in the un- 
hallowed ground of Europe. 

A dense and motiouless cloud of stagnant va- 
luers ever shrouds these dreary realms. From 
afar a chilling sensation informs the traveller 
that he approaches their dark and dismal pre- 



cincts ; and as he enters them an icy blast, 
rising from their inmost bosom, rushes forth to 
meet his breathj siuklenly strikes his chest, and 
seems to oppose his progress. His very liorse 
snuffs up the deadly effluvia with signs of mani- 
fest terror, and, exhaling a cold and clammy 
sweat, advances reluctantly over a hollow 
ground, which shakes as he treads it, and loudly 
re-echoes his slow and fearful step. So long 
and so busily has time been at work to fill this 
chosen spot — so repeatedly has Constantinople 
poured into this ultimate receptacle almost its 
wliole contents, tliat the capital of the living, spite 
of its immense population, scarce counts a single 
breathing inhabitant for every ten silent in- 
mates of this city of the dead. Already do its 
fields of blooming sepulchres stretch far away 
on every side, across the brow of the hills and 
the bend of the valleys : already are the avenues 
which cross each other at every step in this do- 
main of death so lengthened, that the weary 
stranger, from whatever point he comes, still 
fiixds before him many a dreary mile of road 
between marshalled tombs and mournful cypres- 
ses ere he reaches his journo^^'s seemingly reced- 
ing end ; and yet, every year does tliis common 
patrimony of all the heirs to decay still exhibit 
a rapidly increasing size, a fresh and wider line 
of boundary, and a new belt of young i)lanta- 
tions, growing up between new Hower-beds of 
graves. — Anastasius. 


Before the end of the journey we had to 
encounter an enemy more formidable tlian any 
Arab tribe, not excepting the most savage of 
the desert; I mean the dread saniicl. Our 
caravan was slowly pacing througli the bound- 
less plain — the liorses' steps .sounding more 
hollow than usual on tlie earth, and a more 
awful stillness reigning in tlie atmosphere. 
Suddenly a luriil glare overspread the eastern 
extn-mity of tlu^ hori/on, while a thick, sulphur- 
ous mist arose fmin tlic gmnnd, which — lirst 
revolving round \u\A nunul in rapid eddies— 


next mounted up to tlio sky, and linally over- 
cast with threatening darkia-ss the wliole 
licavenly vault. At these terrific sy in[»toin.s our 
Arabs turned pale, and goaded on our cattle 
with headlong liurry, in order, if possible, still 
to outruu the baleful blast. But in vain! 
Hoarsely murmuring, the hot stream swejtt the 
ground with frightful speed, and, anxiously as 
we quickened our pace, gained fast ui)ou us. 
I'erceivirig themselves encompassed on all sides 
by its iicry breath, our people shrieked with 
terror, our very cattle howled with instinctive 
anguish, and all that had life fell ilat on the 
ground, burying nose and mouth deep in the 
shifting sands — in liopes that the envenomed 
current, gliding over the prostrate limbs, might 
not approach the vitals. 

Near half an hour did the raging hurricane 
keep us thus riveted to the ground, witliout 
daring to move, or to speak, or scarce to draw 
breath ; and soon entirely covered us with a fine 
impalpable dust, which not only penetrated 
into every fold of our garments, but as we after- 
wards found, into every inmost recess of our 
boxes and luggage — when at last our beasts of 
burthen, as if awaking from a profound trance, 
began to shake themselves, and, by all again of 
one accord rising upon their legs, gave tbe sig- 
nal that the danger was past. Every creature 
now stood up that was able, and thanked Prov- 
idence for his escape. Only one member of 
the caravan, a foreign merchant — too tardy 
perhaps in prostrating himself before an un- 
known enemy — rose no more. On approaching, 
we already found him breathless, and welter- 
ing in the black muddy blood that gushed from 
his nose, mouth, and ears. -My guides lost no 
time in committing his corrupt mass to the 
earth, ere the limbs should detach themselves 
from the swelling trunk; then heaped some 
stones over the spot, to protect it from the 
ounce and jackal, and — these short rites and 
simple monument completed — again proceeded 
onwards. — A?iastasius. 



HOPKINS, John Henry, an American 
clergyman and author, born in 1792 ; died 
in 1868. He was a native of Dublin, 
Ireland, and came to the United States 
when he was eight years old. He was 
educated in Philadelphia, and entered on 
the practice of law in Pittsburg. In 1823 
lie entered the ministry of the Protestant 
Episcopal Church, preached in Pittsburg 
and in Boston, and in 1832 was made 
Bishop of Vermont. He was an active 
worker in educational affairs, and a vigor- 
ous defender of Church doctrines. Among 
liis works are Christianity Vindicated; 
The Primitive Creed Examined and Ex- 
plained (1831) ; The Primitive Church 
compared with the Protestant Episcopal 
Church of the Present Day (1835) ; Essay 
071 Crothic Architecture (1836) ; Sixteen 
Lectures on the Causes, Principles and Re- 
sults of the British Heformation (1844) ; 
The End of Controversy Controverted 
(1854) ; Scriptural, Ecclesiastical, and 
Historical View of Slavery (1864) ; The 
American Citizen : His Riyhts and Duties 
accordiny to the Spirit of the Constitution ; 
The Laiv of Ritualism (1868), and numer- 
ous Sermons. 


So simple, yet so strong, is the Imsis for tliis 
practice of the Primitive CMu-istiau Churcli, 
that even tlie yearnings of the natural heart 
are compelled to do it homage. For we know 
liow powerfully it operates on tlu' worldly 
mind itself. Can any one fail to see that the 
longing for posthumous vem^ration forms one 
of the highc'st incentives t(» the ac(]uisition of 
fame? ('an any one douht that the ])atriots of 
the Revolution, for example, derived a true 
ami inteusu sivtisfaction froni tho kiwwlcdgo 



that when tlie peoplo, in after ages, should 
come togotlior to celebrate the national inde- 
pendence, their names would be commemorated 
with grateful triumph, and thanks and praises 
in their honor woultl be uttered from tlie lijis 
of thousands of orators in every quarter of tbo 
land for which they toiled and bled ? And 
lias not the same feeling animated the breasts 
and nerved the efforts of heroes and sages in 
all ages, since the world began ? 

Nay, is there a man, however humbh^ his 
sphere — however limited his circle — that docs 
not desire to be remembered by his family 
and friends, after he has passed away V Does 
it not cast a deeper gloom over the hour of 
de[)arture, when death overtakes us among 
strangers and alone ? And would it not add 
a sharp pang to the last agony, to be told by 
those we loved on earth, that in a little space 
we shoidd l)e entirely forgotten '' 

Thus loudly does nature herself plead in be- 
half of this universal feeling. It is the in- 
stinct of love, it is the witness of immortality, 
written on the lieart, and no effort of false 
j)hilosophy can overcome it altogether. Jiut 
the Christian faith ex2)lains it, sanctities it. 
ennobles it, and gives it the only true and 
proper elevation. For here we learn that death 
is no real separation to the children of CJod. 
Here we imbibe the spiritual love that lasts 
forever. Here we enter into the grand society 
which shall be united before the eternal throne. 
Why should the departed saint be supposed to 
forget that Church, for which he toiled and 
prayed, and in which were formed, by the 
grace of the Holy 8[>irit, the princi[»les and the 
character of holiness ? Why should the Church 
on earth be su})posed to forget him, who is an 
everlasting member of tiu'ir own body ? And 
therefore, when they meet together, tliey tdke 
comfort in knowing that he is still united to 
them in soul. And he ^?/v.s comfort in know- 
ing tJirtt they never fail to commeuiorute him 


in these precious words : '* And we also Idess 
Thy holy iicame, for all Thy servants departed 
this life in Thy faith and fear ; beseeching 
Thee to give us grace to follow their good ex- 
amples, that with them, we may be partakers 
of Thy heavenly kingdom." 

Surely then, we have here a rational founda- 
tion for the custom of the primitive Christians, 
and the sentiments of the earl\' fathers, with- 
out being in any sense obliged to connect .the 
consolation taken by the departed with the 
horrible idea of I'urgator}'. The notion 
that we should only pray for the deceased l>e- 
cause they weie in torment, is utterly at w;.r 
with Scripture, with primitive practice, and 
with reason itself. — The End of Controvtrsy 


MARK irOPTvIX.S.— t 

1I(3PKINS, iMAKK, ail Anierlcan educa- 
cator and author, born in 180:2; died in 
1887. He was educated at Williams Col- 
lege, graduating in 1824 ; was tutor there 
for two }-ears, then studied medicine, and 
began practice in New Vork. In 18;>0 he 
was appointed Professor of Moral Philoso- 
phy and Rhetoric at Williams, and in 1836 
President of the college. He resigned the 
presidency in 1872, but continued to teach 
mental and moral philosophy in the col- 
k^ge until his death. He was one of the 
gi'cat educators of time, and drew students 
from- all parts of the country. In 1846 
he published Evidences of Christianitt/, a 
c(»urse of the Lowell Lectures, delivered tlu; 
preceding _year. He also publisheil a vol- 
ume of 31is(;(>UaHeoHii Exsaj/H and Discourses 
1847), Lectures on Moral Science (1862), 
Baccalaureate Sermons and Occasional Dis- 
courses (1863), The Latv of Love^ and Love 
as a Laiv^ and The Outline Study of Man 
(1873), Strenijth and Beauty (1874), and 
The Scriptural Idea of Man (1883.) 


The P>il)le is coinciileiit with Nuture, as now 
known, in its teuchings respecting tlie natural 
attributes of (lod. Tlie New Testament seUloni 
dwells upon the natural attributes of Gud ; 
but wlicn it does to any extent, as in tlie ascrip- 
tion of Paul, " To the King eternal, imniortal, 
invisible, the only wise God," it plainly rec'og- 
nizes and adopts the doctrines of the Old, and 
they may, therefore, for this purpose, be fairly 
taken together. Let us go back, then, to those 
ancient prophets. If we exclude this idea of 
revelation, nothing can be more surprising 
than the ideas of God expressed byv them. 
These ideas, of themselves, arc sufhcient to 
give the stamp of divinity to their writings, 


Surrounded by polytlioists, they proclaimed hia 
unity. Living in a period of great ignorance 
in regard to pliysical science, they ascribed to 
God absokite eternity, and that unchange- 
ableness which is essential to a perfect Being, 
and they represented all his natural attributes 
as infinite. Accordingly, it is when these attri- 
butes are their theme, that their poetry rises 
to its unparalleled sublimity. " Who," says 
Isaiah, "■ hath measured the waters in the 
hollow of his hand, and meted out heaven with 
the span, and comprehended the dust of the 
earth in a measure, and weighed the mountains 
in scales and the hills in a balance ? " Even 
now, when Science has brought lier rept>rt 
from the depths of infinite space, and told us 
of the suns and systems that glow and circle 
there, how can we better express our emotions 
than to adopt hi"S language, and say, " Lift up 
up your eyes on high and behold who luith 
created these things, that bringeth out their 
host by UTimber : He calleth them all by names 
by the greatness of his might ; for that ho is 
strong in power, not one faileth." And when 
Science has turned her glance in another direc- 
tion, and discovered in the teeming drop 
wonders scarcely less than those in tht! heavens ; 
when she has analyzed matter ; when she has 
disentangled the rays of light, and sliowu the 
colors of which its white web is woven ; when 
the amazing stnu^ture of vegetable and ani- 
mal bodies is laid open ; what can we say of 
Kirh. who worketh all this, but that he is 
" wonderful in counsel, and excellent in 
working!" ''There is no searching of his 

And when, ag.ain, w(! can look back over near 
three thousantl years more, in which the earth 
lias rolled on in its aj>p<>inteil way, and the 
mighty energies by which all things are moved 
have becui sustained, what can we do but to 
ask, "Hast thou not known, hast thou not 
lieard, that the everlasting (iod, the Lord, the 


Creator of tlio eiirlri of llic earth, fainfoth not 
noitlu'i- is weary ? " With tlicin wo liiid no 
teiHlency, as among tlie ancic^iit plnlosoplu'rn, to 
ascribe eternity to matter; they everywliere 
speak of it as created; nor, with tlie pantheists, 
to identify matter with God; nor, with tlie 
idolater, to he affected with its magnitude, 
or forms, or order, or hriglitness, or wliat- 
ever may strike tlie senses. But, witli 
them, all matter is i)erfectly subordinate and 
paltry when compared with God. They repre- 
sent him as sustaining it for a time in its 
present order, and then as folding up these 
visible heavens as a vesture is folded, and lay- 
ing them aside. Nothing could more perfectly 
express the al)Solute iniinity of the natural 
attributes of God, or the entire separation and 
dis]»arity between him and everything that is 
called the universe, or its complete subjection 
to his will. 

Now, that men, undistinguished from others 
around them by learning, in an age of prevalent 
polytheism and idolatry, and of great ignorance 
of physical science, should adopt sueh doctrines 
resj)ecting the natural attributes of God, as to 
re(]uire no modification when science has been 
revolutionized and expanded as it were into a 
new universe, does seem to me no slight evi- 
dence that they were inspired by that God 
whose attributes they set forth. — Kvidences of 
Christianity . 


The true idea of progress involves a recogni- 
tion of the true end of man as a social being, 
and an approach toward that. This end 1 su[>- 
pose to be the upbuilding and perfection of the 
individual man in everything that makes him 
truly man. I hold that the germ of all political 
and social well-being is to b<! found in the pro- 
gress of the individiial toward the true ainl 
highest end for which he was made. And here 
we have an instance of that incidental accom- 
26 38s 


pHshment of subordinate ends in the attainment 
of one that is higher, that is everywhere so 
conspicious in the works of God. Is it the end 
of the processes of vegetation to perfect the 
seed ? It is only when those processes move 
on to the successful acconij^lishment of that, 
that we can have the beauty and fragrance of 
the flower, or the shade and freshness of the 
green leaves. So here, M-e hnd that social good 
can be wrought out, and social ends attained, 
only as individuals are perfected in their char- 
acter ; and that the beauty and fragrance and 
broad shade of a perfect society would grow, 
without effort or contrivance, from the ])rogress 
of the individuals of society toward their true 
perfection and end. 

Thus, and thus only, can we have that state of 
ideal perfection in which perfect liberty would 
be combined with perfect securit}', and with 
all the advantages of the social state. If this 
be so, then political organizations, which are 
merel}' mean.s to an end, are most perfect when 
they so combine protection with freedom as to 
give the most favorable theatre for the growth, 
and enjo^nnent, and perfection of the individual 
m?in ; and that society itself is most perfect, 
whatever its form ma}' be, in which the greatest 
number of individuals recognize and pursue 
this end. 

It cannot be too often repeated that the ends 
of society are not realized when there are great 
aorcrrogate results, magnificent public works, 
great accumulations of wealth and of the means 
of sensual and sensitive enjoyment, with tlie 
degradation, or without the growth, of individ- 
uals ; and that all changes in the forms of in- 
stitutions and the directions of active industry 
must be futile whicli do not originate in or 
draw after them an iiiij)rovement in the charac- 
ter of individuals. T.iit it is self-evident that 
society can furnish a free arena for individual 
growth, only as the ])rinci]>l»'s of justice and 
benevolence are recognized — only as the spirit 


of that great precept of doing to otlieis as wo 
would tlu'v should do unto ua, pervades the 
mass. The fundamental condition, then, of 
any progress that can be permanent, and solid, 
and universal, is a moral condition. — I^ssays 
and Discourses. 


In tlic pursuit of tlieir distinct and inde- 
pendent objects, individual men hold the same 
relation to the great pur{)oses of God, which 
the separate workmen upon a comitlex and 
magnilicent structure do to the original design 
and ultimate effect of the whole. Of the busy 
multitudes who labored upon the rising walls 
of St. Peter's church at Kome, each jjolishing 
his own stone or shajjing his own angle, how 
few had any conception of the grand result, or 
cared for anj-thing beyond the wages he was to 
receive at night. They toiled for their bread ; 
and yet, from their A'oluntary toil, thus in- 
duced, and directed by the controlling genius of 
Michael Angelo, there arose a structure that 
has astonished the world. 

True, it did not affect the result whether 
the workmen understood the design or not ; 
but it does essentially affect the estimate 
which we make of them. In the one case 
they were drudges, and could never share in 
the glory and pleasure of the design ; they 
were instruments, as the saw and the axe. 
In the other, they were fit comjjanions of 
Angelo himself, their bosoms swelled with the 
same impulses and shared the same anxieties, 
and their humblest labor, 710 matter how insig- 
nificant, was dignified and cheered as connected 
in their minds with an idea so grand and en- 
nobling. They were no longer instruments, 
they were free intelligences in the likeiu-ss of 
the chief architect, and coijperating cheerfully 
with him. 

And so it is in the works of (}od. JMovedby 
benevolence and guided by wisdom, he is rear- 


ing a structure that is going up without the 
sound of the axe or the hammer, and whicli 
shall stand forever. He whose heart has once 
throbbed with benevolence, and whose eye has 
caught the outlines of this building, is thence- 
forwaixl no longer a slave, nor an instrument, 
but is an intelligent and cheerful co-worker 
with God, and shall be a participator in the 
joy and the triumph that shall wake the echoes 
of heaven, when the top-stone thereof is laid 
with shouting, and they cry, " Grace, grace 
unto it ! " Thenceforward all labor connected 
with this result purifies and elevates the mind. 
There is no act so humble that it cannot be 
ennobled by its germination from this princi- 
ple of action; and though what he may do, 
may seem to be, and may be, but as the drop 
to the ocean, yet he remembers that the 
ocean is made up of drops ; the little he has ti) 
give, he gives cheerfully ; and it is accepted. 
When the unostentatious widow goes to de- 
posit her two mites, the Saviour is there to 
notice it. lie who does this, whether lie does 
little or much, is a good man; he ,se?*res his 
generation ; he co-operates with God, feebly it 
may be, but intelligently and cheerfully, in 
the promotion of his benevolent purposes. — 
Mssays and Discourses. 

FKAN(;i.S JIorKINSC^N.— 1 

HOPKINSON, Francis, an American 
jurist and autlior, and one of tlio signers 
of the Declaration of I]idependence,"born 
at riiiladeli)hia in 1737; died in 1791. 
He graduated at the College of Pennsyl- 
vania, studied law, and after a residence 
of two years in England, took up his resi- 
dence at Bordentown, N. J. In 1776 he 
was sent to tlie American Congress as one 
of the representatives from New Jersey. 
In 1779 he was appointed a Judge of Ad- 
miralty of Pennsylvania, holding'tiie oflice 
until.the formation of tlie Federal (lovern- 
ment of the United States in 1789 wlicn 
he was appointed by Washington District 
Judge for Pennsylvania. llis political 
writings were very effective during the 
war of the Revolution. Among tliem is 
The Battle of the Ke(/is,ii humorous halhid, 
and The Neiv lloof, a song iov Federal 
mechanics. A collection of his Miaeel- 
laneous Essays and Occasional Writin;/s, 
in three volumes, appeared in 1792. IVIany 
of his satirical and humorous writings 
have been frequently reprinted. 


Professor. — AVhat is a Salt-box ? 

Sttalent. — It is a box made to contain salt. 

Prof. — How is it divided ? 

Stud. — Into a Suit-box and a Box of Salt. 

Prof. — Very well ! Show tlie distinct ion. 

Stud. — A Salt-box may be where there is no 
salt, but salt is absolutely necessary to a Box 
of Salt. 

Prof. — Are not Salt-boxes otherwise di- 
vided ? 

Stud. — Yes ; by a partition. 

Prof — What is the use of this partition ? 

Stud, — To separate the coarse salt from tho 


Pro/— How ? Think a little. 

Stud. — To separate the fine salt from the 

Prof. — To be sure ; it is to separate the 
fine from the coarse. But are not Salt-boxes 
yet otherwise distinguished ? 

Stud. — Yes : into Possible, Probable, and 

Prof. — Define these several kinds of Salt- 

Stud. — A Possible Salt-box is a Salt-box yet 
unsold in the hands of the joiner. 

Pro/:— Why so ? 

Stud. — Because it hath never yet become a 
Salt-box in fact, having never had any salt in 
it ; and it may possibly be applied to some 
other use. 

Prof. — ^Very true ; for a Salt-box which 
never had, hath not now, and perhaps may 
never have, any salt in it can only be termed a 
Possible Salt-box. What is a Probable Salt- 
box ? 

Stud. — It is a Salt-box of one going to buy 
salt, who hath sixpence in liis pocket to pay 
the grocer ; and a Positive Salt-box is one which 
hath actually and hondfde got salt in it. 

Prif. — Very good. But is there no instance 
of a l*()sitive Salt-box which hath no salt in it '! 

Stud. — I know oi none. 

Prof. — Yes ; there is one mentioned by some 
authors : It is where a box liath by long use 
lieen so impregnated with salt, that, although 
all the salt hath been long since emptied out, 
it may yet be called a Salt-box, with the same 
])ro])riety that we may say a salt-herring, salt- 
l)eef, etc. And in this sense any box that may 
have, accidentally or otherwise, been long 
stee]»ed in brine, may be t(U-med positively 
aSalt-l)ox, althongh never designed for the ])ur- 
])ose of keeping salt. Hut tell me, what other 
division of Salt-boxes do you recolhu't. 

Stud. — Tli(y are divided into Substiuitive 
aaid Pendant : a Substantive Salt-box is that 

FRANCIS noPKIX.S()>^.— 3 

wliich stands by itself on tin- t:il'le or dresser; 
and a Pend;irit is tliat whicli limit's upon a nail 
against tlic wall. 

Prof. — What is the idea of a Sult-hox ? 

fStud. — It is that image which the mind con- 
ceives of a Salt-box when no Salt-box is present. 

l-'rof. — What is the Abstract Idea of a salt- 
box ? 

Stud. — It is tlie idea of a Salt-box abstracted 
from the idea of a box, or of salt, or of a Salt- 
box or a box of salt. 

Prof. — Very right ; and by these means you 
acquire a jnost perfect knowledge of a Salt-box. 
But tell me, is the idea of a Salt-box a sale idea ? 

Stud. — Not unless the ideal box hath ideal 
salt in it. 

Prof. — True. And therefore an abstract 
idea cannot be either salt or fresh, round or 
scpiare, long or short ; for a true abstract idea 
must be entirely free from all adjuncts. And 
this shows the difference between a salt idea 
and an idea of salt. Is an aj»titude to hold salt 
an Essential or an Accidental property of a 
salt box ? 

Stud. — It is Essential ; but if there should be 
a crack in the bottom of the box, the ai)titude 
to spill salt would be termed an Accidental 
prop<n-ty of that Salt-box. 

Prof — Very well ! Very well indeed. What 
is the salt called with respect to the box .'' 

Stud. — It is called its contents. 

Prof — And why so ? 

Stud — Ik'cause the cook is content, quo ad 
hoc, to find plenty of salt in the box. 

Prof — You are very right. I see you have 
not mis-spent your time. But let us now pro- 
ceed to Logic. — How many Sides are there in 
a Salt-box ? 

Stud. — Three : Bottom, Top, and Sides. 

Prof. — How many Modes are there in Salt- 
boxes ? 

Stud. — l^)ur : the Formal, the Substantial, 
the Accidental, and the Topsy-turvey. 

Prof — Define these several iVIodes. 



Stud. — The Formal respects tlie figure or 
sliape of the box — such a.s round, square, ohloug, 
and so forth ; tlie Suhstantial respects the work 
of the joiner ; and the Accidental dej^er.ds upon 
the string by which the box is hung against 
the wall. 

Prof. — Very well ; and what are th 3 conse- 
quences of the Accidental Mode ? 

Stud — If the string should break, the box 
would fall, the salt be spilt, the Salt-box broken, 
and the cook in a bitter passion : and this is the 
Accidental Mode, with its consequences. 

Prof. — How do you distinguish between the 
Top and the Bottom of a Salt-box ? 

Stud. — The Top of a box is that part which 
is uppermost, and tlie Bottom that which is 
lowest in all positions. 

Prof. — You should rather sa\' the lowest 
part is the Bottom, and the uppermost part is 
the Top. How is it, then, if the Bottom should 
be uppermost ? 

Stud. — The Top would then be lowermost ; 
and so the Bottom would l)ecome the Top, and 
the Top would l)ecome the Bottom ; ami this is 
called the Topsy-turvey Mode, which is nearly 
allied to the Accidental, and frecjuently arises 
from it. 

Prof — Very good ! But are not Salt-boxes 
sometimes Single, and sometimes Double? 

Stad. — Yes. 

Prof — Well, then mention tin; several com- 
binations of Salt-l)ox('s witli respect to their 
Iiaving salt or not. 

Stud. — They arc divided into Single Salt- 
boxes having salt; Single Salt-boxes having no 
salt; Double Salt-boxes having salt; Double 
Sal t-box(;s having no salt; and Siuglc-doubbi 
Salt-boxes having salt and no sail. 

/V<>/:— Hold ! hold! Y..n aiv going too far. 

A CASIO l,K(iAI,I,V Al>,IUI)(iKI). 

This was an action on tlu! statut(^ called 
"'I'hc Statute' of IsJails," which j)rohibits all 
subjects witliin the realm from cutting or jjar- 



iii^ tlii'ir ii:iils un ;i l^'riday, iiinici- Ihc j.cii;il(y 
of twenty sliilliiigs lor every (, to be re- 
covered l»y tlu' ovei-seers of tlie j)oor of the 
county in wliicli the offense slioukl be com- 
mit ted. 'I'he overseers of tlie poor for tlio 
county brontflit tlieir uclion, under tlie statute, 
against tlie defendant. And it was in jtroof 
that the defendant had j)ared his Ihunih-iiails 

and his great-toe-nails on Friday, to wit, the 

day of , at twelve o'clock iji tlio night of 

the same day. 

Counsel for the defendant demturecl to tlie 
facts, observing that, as this was a i)enal law, 
it ought to he strictly construed; and there- 
upon took three points of defense, viz : first, 
it was urged that night is not dai/, and the 
statute ex])res.sly says Fx'i-dai/, and not Fri- 
ni(/ht; and the proof is that the cutting was at 
night. Secoiiil/;/, it was contended that twelve 
o'clock (HI Friday night is, in fact, the begin- 
ning of Saturday morning, and therefore not 
within the statute. And, thlrdli/, that the 
words of the statute are " Ungues iHtfitoricnt " 
— Anglice, "the nails of the Fingers, ' and the 
testimony only affects thumbs and great-toes. 

The jury gave in a special verdict; where- 
upon, after long advisement, the Judges were 
of unanimous opinion, on the first point, that, 
in construction of law, day is night and night 
is day ; l»ecause a day consists of twenty-four 
hours, and the law will not allow a fraction of 
a (hiy : — "■ JJe tiii/iunns non curat lex;'' in 
English, "the law don't stand upon trifles." 
( )n the second [)oint, that twelve o'clock at 
night, being the precise line ol' division between 
Friday night and Saturday morning, is a por- 
tion or point of time which may he considered 
as belonging to both, or to either, or to neither, 
at the discretion ,.1" the Court. And, thirdly, 
that, in the construction of law, fingers are 
thumbs and thumbs are fingers, and thum1>s 
and fingers are great-toes and little-toes, and 
great-toes and little-toes are thumbs and fin- 
gers : And so judgment for the plaintijff. 



HOPKINSON, Joseph, an American 

iurist, son of Francis Ilopkiiison, born at 
riiiladclphia in 1770 ; died there in 18-12. 
He graduated at the University f)f Fenn- 
.sylvania, studied law in Phihidelphia, 
where he attained a high rank in liis pro- 
fession. From 1815 to 1819 he was a 
inember of the U. S. House of Represen- 
tatives ; and in 1828 was appointed judge 
of the U. S. Court for the Eastern District 
of Penn.sylvania. As an author he is 
known almost solely by his national songs, 
"Hail Columbia," written in 17'J8 for the 
benefit of an actor named. Fox. 


Hail CohmiLia ! happ}'^ liuul ! 
Hail yo licroes ! lieav(Mi-l)orn hand! 

AV^lio fouglit and hlrd in Froedom's cause, 
Wlio fouglit and l)led in Freedom's cause, 
And when tlie storm of war was gone. 
Enjoyed the peace your valor won. 
Let Indepeiidoncc be our boast 
Ever mindful what it cost; 
Ever grateful for the prize ; 
Let its altar reach the skies. 
Firm, united, let us be, 
llall^'ing roiuid our Liberty; 
As a band of brothers joined, 
Peace and safety we shall lind. 

Immortal patriots ! rise once more ; 

])efend j-our rights ; defend your shore 
Let no rude foe with imiiious hand, 
Let no rude foe with impious hand, 

Livade the shrine where sacred lies 

C)f toil and l)lood the w(dl-earned prize. 
AVliile offering peac(^ sincere aiul just, 
In heaven we ])lace a maidy trust, 
That truth and justice will prevail, 
And every sclieuu^ of bondage fail. 
J^Hnti, unit I'd, let ii.'^ he, etc. 


Sound, sound tlie trunip of Fame ! 

Let Washington's great name 

King tlirougli the world with h)ud ai)plausft, 
King thnnigh tlie world with loud up{)laiise ; 

Let ev(!ry clime to Freedom dear, 

Listen witlj a joyful ear ! 

With equal skill and god-like power 
He governed in the fearful hour 
Of horrid war; or guides with ease 
The hap2)ier times of honest peace. 
I'Hrm, united, let us be, etc. 

Behold the chief who now commands, 
Onco more to servo his country stands — . 
The rock on which the storm will beat, 
Tlie rf)ck on which the storm will beat; 
V>\\t armed in virtue firm and true 
]Iis hopes ar(; lixed on heaven and you. 
When hope was sinking in dismay, 
And glooms obscured Columbia's day 
His steady mind from changes free 
Resolved on death or liberty. 
7''irfn, imited, let its he, etc 



HORACE (QuiNTUS Horatius Flac- 

cus), a Roman poet, born at Venusia, 
abont 200 miles south-west of Rome, in 
65 B.C.; died at Rome in 8 B.C. His 
father was a freedman, who appears to 
have been a servus publicus^ or bond- 
man of the community, who took his 
distinctive name from the Horatian tribe, 
to which the community belonged. After 
his manumission he was made a coaetor, a 
term designating a collector of the revenue 
and an auctioneer at public sales. The 
elder Horace appears to have exercised 
both these functions, and acquired a moder- 
ate competency, including a small farm, 
upon which his son was born. When the 
boy was about twelve, his father took him 
to Rome, his means being sufficient to give 
him the education of a gentleman. It 
does not ap})ear that either father or son 
ever revisited their former home. Of this 
slave-born father, Horace, as will be seen, 
speaks in terms of the highest admiration 
and veneration. At about eighteen Horace 
was sent by Ins father to Athens to com- 
plete his education. For some four years 
he devoted himself to the study of pliiloso- 
phy. After the assassination of Julius 
Caesar (b. c. 44), Brutus arrived at Athens, 
on his way to the Eastern provinces, to 
the command of which he had been assign- 
ed, in conjunction with Cassius. Rrutus 
remained some time at Athens, ostensibly 
engaged in philoso])hical studies, but really 
recruiting oflicers for Ins army from the 
young Romans who were studying there. 
Among those whom he enlisted was Horace, 
wlio was made a military tribune, and 
])lac'ed in (M)nunand of a legion, at the liead 
t)f which h(! t()()k])art in thel>altl(; of IMiil- 


ippi (B.C. 42.) Believing that there was 
no hope of continuin_[( the struggle, Horace 
" threw away Ins shield," and made his 
way back to Rome. The general amnesty 
wliich had been proclaimed assured him 
personal safety. But as he himself says : 

"Bated in spirit, and with pinions clipped, 
Of all the means my father left me stripped. 
Want stared uu) in the face, so then and there 
I took to scribbling verso in sheer despair." 

His first productions were lampoons, of 
which he soon became thoroughly ashamed, 
designating them as " smart and scurrilous 
lines," most of which he succeeded in sup- 
pressing. But one poem, written in 40 
B. C, when he was in his twenty-fourth year, 
and addressed to " The Roman People," 
is pitched on a loftier key than anything 
else which he ever wrote. The civil war 
was raging with more fierceness than ever, 
and there was i-cason to apprehend that 
Rome itself would be taken and sacked by 
the hostile faction. Horace urged all 
worthy citizens to flee from the doomed 
city, and take ship and sail for those Isl- 
ands of the Blest wliich weie fabled to 
lie far out in the unknown Western 


Another age in civil wars will soon be spent 

and worn. 
And by lier native strength our liome be 

wrecked and overborne : — 
That Rome the Marcians could not crush, who 

border on the lands, 
Nor the shock of threatening Borsena with his 

Etruscan bands, 
Nor Capua's strength that rivalled ours, nor 

Spartacus the stern, 


"Not the faithless Allohrogian, who still for 

change doth yearn. 
Ay, what Germania's blue-eyed youth quelled 

not with ruthless sword, 
Nor Hannibal by our great sires detested and 

We shall destroy with ruthless hands imbrued 

in brothers' gore, 
And wild beasts of the wood shall range our 

native land once more. 
A foreign foe, alas ! shall tread The City's 

ashes down. 
And his horse's ringing hoofs shall smite her 

places of renown ; 
And the bones of great Quirinius, now re- 
ligiously enshrined. 
Shall be flung by sacrilegious hands to the 

sunshine and the wind. 
And if ye all from ills so dire ask how your- 
selves to free 
Or such at least as would not hold your lives 

unworthily — 
No better counsel I can urge than that which 

erst inspired 
The stout Phocirans wheii from their docuned 

city they retired, 
Their fields, their household gods, their shrines 

surrendering as a prey 
To the wild boar and raveniTig wolf: so we 

in our dismay. 
Where'er our wandering steps may chance to 

carry us should go, [blow. 

Or where'er across the sea the fitful winds may 
llinv think ye then ? If better course none 

offer, why should we 
Not seize the haj)py ausjiices, and boldly put 

to sea ? 
The circling ocean waits us: then away, where 

Nature smiles, 
To thos(( fair lands, those blissful lands, the 

rich and happy isles. 
Where Ceres year by year crowns all the tin- 
tilled land with sheaves, 


nORACE.— 4 

Aiul tlif \iiic witli j)ur[>l<! clusters (Irmips, tiii- 
])ruiit'<l iif all lici' leaves ; 

Wheie tlio olive luids and burgeons, to its 
jnomise ne'er iintiiie, 

And tlio russi'l iii^ adorns tlie trees that gniff- 
sliout never linew ; 

Wliere lioney from llie Imllow oaks dotli ooze, 
and crv.stai rills 

Come dancing down willi tinkling feet from 
tho sky-dividing liills? — 

There to the pails the she-goats come, without 
a master's word, 

And liome with udders hrimming broad re- 
turns the friendly herd; 

There round the fold no surly bear its mid- 
night prowl d<ifh make, 

Nor teems the rank and heaving snil with the 
adder and the snake ; 

There no contagion smites tin; Hocks, iKjr blight 
of any star, 

With fury of remorseless beat, the sweltering 
herds doth mar. 

Nor are the swelling seeds burnt tip within 
the thirsty clods — 

So Ivindly blends the seasons there the King of 
all the gods. 

That shore the Argonautic bark's stout rowers 
never gained, 

Nor the wily She of Colchis with step unchaste 
profaned ; 

The sails of Sidon's galleys ne'er were wafted 
to that strand. 

Nor ever rested oji its slopes Ulysses's toil- 
worn band : 

For Jupiter, when he with brass the Golden 
Age alloyed, 

That region set apart b}' the good to be en- 
joyed ; 

With brass and then with iron he the ages 
seared ; but ye, 

Good men and true, to that bright home arise, 
arise and follow me. 

Trand. q/' Theodore Martin, 



The fortunes of Horace began to nienM'. 
His books sold — for there were booksellers 
and publishers in those daj's ; so that 
there must have been a considerable class 
of book-buyers. Horace was enabled to 
get an appointment to some ofiicial posi- 
tion, the emoluments of which were suffi- 
cient to maintain him. He also made the 
acquaintance of the rising men of letters, 
among whom Avere Varius, of whom we 
know little more than that Quintilian said 
that his tragedy of Thyestes was not un- 
worthy to be ranked with the best trage- 
dies of Greece ; and Virgil, some five years 
older than Horace. These two took him 
to the house of the wealthy Maecenas, 
whose name has come to be the synonym 
for an enlightened patron of letters and 
art. A few 3'ears afterwards Horace, ad- 
diessing Maecenas, recalls the incidents of 
their iirst acquaintanceship, which ripened 
into a lifelong friendsliip. 


Lucky I will not call myself, as though, 
Tliy friendship I to ineve good fortune owe. 
No chance it was secured me thy regards, 
]>ut Virgil fu'st — that licst of men and bards ; 
And then kind Varius mentioned wliat 1 was. 
]>efore you brought, with many a faltering 

])rn])ping soiiir few brief words (for bashfulness 
llobbed me of utterance) I <li(l n<it profess 
Tliat 1 was sprung of lineage old and great, 
Or used to canter round my own estate 
On a Satureian barb ; but wliat and who 
I was, as plainly told. As usual, you 
Brief answer make me. I retire, and then — 
Some nine months after — summordngmo again, 
You bi<l me 'mongst your friends assume a 

place ; 



And proud T feci that thus 1 won your grace ; 
Nolt by ail ancestry long known to fanu!, 
But by my life, and heart devoid (^f hlaine. 
Trand. (>/"Tiikodoi:k Mautin. 

To lliis period evidently Ixdoiip^s the 
picture wliicli lloiace gives of his daily 
routine ot" life at Koine : evidently that of 
a bachelor in comfortable but by no means 
in alllucnt circumstances ; yet quite con- 
tented with his condition and surround- 
ings : 


I walk alone, by mine own fancy led. 
Inquire the price of pot-herb.s and of bread, 
The circus cross, to see its tricks and fun, 
The forum too, at times near set of sun ; 
AVith other fools there do I stand and gape 
Kound fortune-tellers' stalls ; thence home 

To a plain meal of pancakes, pulse, and pease ; 
Three young boy-slaves attend on me with 

Upon a slab of snow-white marble stand 
A goblet, and two beakers ; near at liand 
A common ewer, patera, and bowl : 
(Jompania's lotteries produced the whole. 
To .sleej) then I. . . . 

I keep my couch till ten, then walk awhile, 
l)r having read or writ what may beguile 
A fpiiet after-hour, anoint my limbs 
With oil — not such as filthy Natta skims 
From lamps defraiided of their unctuous fare. 
And when the sunbeams, grown too hot to bear, 
Warn me to quit the field and hand-ball i>lay. 
The bath takes all my weariness away. 
Then having liglitly dined just to appease 
The sense of emptiness — I take mine ease, 
Enjoying all home's simple luxury*. 
This is the life of bard uiiclogged, like me, 
liy stern ambition's miserable weight. 
So placed, I own, with gratitude, my state 

26 ^°' 


Is sweeter, ay, than though a qa?Rstor's power 
From sire and grandsires had heen m}'^ dower. 
Transl. o/'Tiieodokk, Martin. 

Horace had oftun wished for a phice in 
the country to which lie might retire from 
time to time, and especially dining the hot 
summer months ; and in a poem which is 
altogether antobiograpliical, he pictures 
the kind of place which he would like : 

''My i)rayers witli this I used to charge — 

A piece of land not very large, 

Wherein there should a garden bo 

A clear spring flowing ceaselessly. 

And where, to crown the whole, there should 

A patch be found of growing wood." 

One day, about four years after their 
first acquaintance, when Horace was about 
thirty-two, the munificent Majcenas present- 
ed him with just such an estate as he had 
desiderated. This estate, which he mod- 
estly designates as his " Sabine farm," was 
situated on high land about thirty miles 
from Rome ; so that he had but to mount his 
"bob-tailed ambling mule," and an easy 
da,y's ride would take him from the city to 
the farm or from the farm to the city. Of 
the extent of tiiis farm we can form an ap- 
proximate estimate. It consisted of arable 
land, meadow land, and wood land; was 
cultivated under the sn])erintendence of a 
bailiff, by five families of free colo7i% consist- 
ing presumably of about a score of indi- 
viduals, besides which was the domestic 
establisliment of eight slaves. Here Horace 
l)uilt a modest villa, the site of whicli is 
still shown : and tliere is a piece of mas- 
sive pavement which is credibly asserted 
to have been a part of the villa of Horace. 
This is lightly covered over with earth, 
and i\\o peasants make many an honest 


penny by shoveling away the soil so as to 
show the j)avcnient to frequent tourists. 
Within a few liundred yards from the villa 
site, and proljably within the l)ounds of 
what was once the Sabine farm, there is 
still a copious spring of cold water, wliich 
can scarcely be other than tlie "Fountain 
of Bandusia," which the poet has immor- 


liuiuhisia's fount, in clearness crystalline, 
() wortliy of the wine, the flowers we vow ! 

To-morrow shall be thine 
A kid, whose crescent brow 

Is sprouting, all for love and victory, 

In vain ; liiswurni rod blood, so early stirred, 

Thy gelid stream sludl dye, 
Child of the wanton herd. 

Thee the fierce Hirian star, to madness fired, 
Forl)ears to touch ; sweet cool thy waters 

To ox witli ploughing tired. 
And flocks that range afield. 

Thou too one (biy shalt win proud eminence 
Mid honored founts, while I the ilex sing 

Crowning ihc, (uivern, wliencci 
Thy baLdiling waters spring. 

TraiisL o/*Coninotox. 

Horace in one of his Epistles, wa-itten 
some time after he had taken up his resi- 
dence there, thus describes this Sabine 


About my farm, de;ir (Juiiu^tius : You would 

What sort of produce for its lord 'twill grow; 
Plough-land is it, or meadowdand, or soil 
For apples, vine-clad olnis, or oil ';' — 
So (but you'll think me garrulous) I'll write 


A full description of its form and site : 
In long continuous lines the mountains run, 
Cleft by a valley, which twice feels the sun — 
Once on the right, when first he lifts his 

beams ; 
Once on the left, when he descends in streams. 
You'd praise the climate ; well, and what 

d'ye say 
To sloes and cornels hanging from the spray ? 
What to the oak and ilex which afford 
Fruit to the cattle, shelter to the lord ? 
What, but rich Tarentum must have been 
Transplanted nearer Kome, with all its green ? 
Then there's a fountain, of sufficient size 
To name the river that there takes its rise : 
Not Thracian Hebrus colder or more pure. 
Of power the head's and stomach's ills to cure. 
This sweet retirement — nay, 'tis more than 

sweet — 
Insures my health even in September's heat. 
Transl. o/'Conington. 
The " cattle" who fed upon the acorns 
were, of course, swine ; and, as appears over 
and over ajrain, " bacon and greens"' was a 
favorite dish of Horace wlio lived mainly on 
fruit and vegetables of one kind or' an- 
other. In liis Ode written for the open- 
ing of the Temple of Apollo, erected by 
Augustus, lie puts up this petition in liis 
own behalf : 

Horace's petition to apollo. 
Let olives, endive, mallows light, 

Be all my fare : and health 
Give thou, Apollo, so T might 

Enjoy my present wealtli ! 
Give me but tliese, I ask no more : 

These, and a mind entire ; 
An old ago not unhonorcd, nor 

Unsolaced by the lyn^ 

Trand. (^>/' Theodore Marttn. 

At one time, while at Kome, he gives 

nORAOE.— 10 

expression of his longing to get back to 
liis Sabine farm, and describes his way of 
life there. 


When, when shall I the country see, 
Its woodlands green — oh, when be free, 
With books of great old men, and sleep, 
And hours of dreamy ease, to creep 
Into oblivion sweet of life, 
Its agitations and its strife ? 
When on my table shall be seen 
Pythagoras's kinsman bean. 
And bacon — not too fat — embellish 
My dish of greens, and give it relish ? 
Oh liai)py nights, oh feasts divine. 
When with the friends I love I dine 
At mine own hearth-fire, and the meat 
We leave gives my bluff liinds a treat! 

No stupid laws our feasts control. 
But each guest drains or leaves the bowl 
Precisely as he feels inclined. 
If he be strong, and have a mind 
Por bumpers, good ! If not he's free 
To sip his li(|Uor leisurely. 
And then the talk our banquet rouses ! 
But not about oxir neighbors' houses, 
Or if 'tis generally thought 
That Lepus dances well or not ? 
But what concerns us nearer, and 
Is harmful not to understand : 
Whether by wealth or worth 'tis plain 
That men to happiness attain? 
By what we're led to choose our friends — 
Regard for them, or our own ends ? 
In what does good consist, and what 
Is the suj)remest form of tliat ? 
And then friend Oervius will strike in 
With some old grandam's tale, akin 
To what we are discussing. Thus 
If some on(! have cried up to us 
Avellius's wealth, forgetting how 
Much care it costs him, "Look you now, 

HORACE.— 11 

Once on a time," he will begin, 
"A country mouse received within 
His rugged cave a city brother, 
As one old comrade would another." 

IVansl. o/" Theodore Martin. 

And here follows the well known para- 
ble of " The Country Mouse and the City 
Mouse." Even upon extraordinary occa- 
sions Horace seems to have made no at- 
tempts at unusual display. Upon one oc- 
casion (it was the anniversary of the birth- 
da}^ of M;ecenas), he thus invites Phyllis 
— a brisk young woman who belonged to 
the better sort of that class whom the 
Greeks and Romans called hetairce, which 
may be fairly represented by " Avomen of 
pleasure" — to visit him at his farm, and 
descril)es the pre])arati()ns which had been 
made for her entertainment. 


I liave laid in a cask of Albanian wine, 

Wliich nine mellow sunnneivs have ripened 
and more. 
In my gardens, dear I'liyllis, thy brows to 
Grows the briglitcst of yellow jtarsley in 
jilentiful store ; 
There's ivy to gleam on thy dark glossy liair : 
My plate, newly burnished, enlivens my 
And tlie ultar, athirst f(n- ils victim, is tliere 
Enwreathed with chaste vervain and clioicest 
of blooms. 

Every hand iti tlie lionsehold is busily toiling, 
And liitlier .-ind tbitlier l)ovs bustle ami 
Whilst, lip from the lieiirtli-Jires careering and 
The smoke round the rafler-l)eams languidly 


HORACE.— 12 

Jjct tlic j'lVs of tlic rt-vi'l \n' |(;irtf(l lictw.Tii lis ! 
"Tis the Ides of viiiiiig April;, lln! (hiy wliidi 
Tlio inoiilli, (lf;ir(;st I'liyllis, of ncc,in-s|)iiiit; 
V I'll us — 
A day t') iiu- tlcarcr tliaii ;iiiy lit-sidcs. 

Ajid wi'll may I prize it, :iii<l liaii its re- 
turn iiiL,' — 
My own natal day not more hallowed or 
doiir ; 
For MaiCCiiJis, niy friend, dates from t his li;tp[>y 
The life wliioli has swelled to u lustrous 
^ career. 
So come, my own I'liyllis, my lieart's latest 
treasure — 
For ne'er foranother tliishosom shall long — ■ 
And I'll teach, while your loved voice re-echoes 
the measure, 
?Iow to charm away care with the magic of 

2'rand. ^>/'Tiieodoki'; IMautin. 

At another time he invites the magnifi- 
cent Mtccenas to come out and take pot- 
hu'k with him at that Sabine farm for which 
he was indebted to his expected guest. 


Our common 8al)ine wine shall be 
The only drink I'll give to thee. 

In modest goblets too ; 
'Twas stored in crock of Grecian delf, 
Dear knight Ma>cenas, by myself, 

That very day when through 
The theatre thy plaudits rang, 
And s[)ortive echo caught the clang, 

And answered from the banks 
Uf thine own dear paternal stream, 
Whilst Vatican renewed the theme 

Of homage and of thanks ! 
Old C;ecul»an, the very best. 

And juice in vats Falerian pressed, 


HORACE.— 13 

You drink at home, I know. 
My cups no choice Falerniaii fills, 
Nor unto them do Formice's liills 

Impart a tempered glow. 

Transl. of Thkodork Martin, 

To Maecenas he promises, if he will come 
out to the farm, '-simple dinners iieatl}' 
dressed ;" and in inviting "another wealthy 
friend he says he must be content with 
vegetables and homely crockery ; but 
everything shall be nicely served, the 
naper}^ shall be clean and neatly ironed, 
and the cups and platters polished so that 
one could see his face in them ; the wine 
should be good of its kind, though not of 
any of the famous growths. These "little 
dinners" of Horace must have been very 
enjoyable affairs, if Horace himself fairly 
answered to his idea of what a host should 


The proper tiling is to be cleanly and nice, 
And yet so as Jiot to he over ])r«'rise; 
To he neither constantly scolding your slaves, 
Like that old l>rig Albutus. as lusols and 

knaves, [too easy. 

Nor, like Najvius, in such tiiuigs who's rather 
To the guests at your board present water 

that's greasy. 

Transl. o/'Tukodokk MAiixix. 

Horace was fond of sneering in his quiet 
way at rare and costly dishes which were 
greatly in vogue among the great folks at 
Home. 'J'hus lu^ ])uts into the mouth of 
Ofellus, a stout old yeijman from the Apu- 
lian hills, such moralizing as this : 


When your butler's away and the weather's 

so l»ad 
That there'9 not a morsel of jish to be had, 


A ci'ust with soiiK! salt will sooLlio not amiss 
The raveiiiiit^ .stoinach. You ask, "JIow is 

tins ? " ' 
Because for delight, at the best, you must look 
To yourself, and not to your wealth or your 

Work till you perspire : of all sauces 'tis best. 
The man that's with over-indulgence ojjprest, 
White-livered and pursy, can relish no dish. 
Be it ortolans, oysters, or finest of fish. 

Still I scarcely can hope, if before you there 

A peacock and capon, you would not prefer 
With the peacock to tickle your palate, you're so 
Completely the dupes of mere semblance and 

For to buy the rare bird only gold will avail. 
And he makes a rare show with his fine painted 

As if this had to do with the matter the least ! 
Can you make of the feathers you i)rize so a 

feast ? 
And when the bird's cooked, what becomes of 

its splendor ? 
Is his flesh tlian tlic capon's more juicy or 

tender ? 
Mere aj)pearance, not substance, then, clearly 

it is 
Wliich bamboozles your judgment so much, 

then, for this. 
So were any one now to assure us a treat 
In cormorants roasted, as tender and sweet, 
The young men of Kome are so prone to what's 

They'd eat corinonints all to a man before long. 
7'ra/i.s/. o/" Theodore Martin. 

Horace, from eaily manhood an intimate 
in tlio l)(>st socic^ty of Rome, loved by Vir- 
gil and Vaiius, honored and loved by Afie- 
cenas, liked and admired evtni l)y the great 
Angnslns was n(>vei- ashamed of liis 
humble (irigiii. In one of his poems ad- 

HORACE.— 15 

dressed to Mncceiias, sliortly after the be- 
ginning of their intimacy, lie thus speaks 
of his slave-born father ; and it would be 
hardly possible to find a nobler tribute 
paid by a son to a father. 

Horace's tribute to his father. 

If pure and innocent I live, and dear 
To those I love (self-praise is venial here), 
All this I owe my father, who, though poor, 
Lord of some few lean acres, and no more. 
Was loth to send me to the village school, 
AVhere the sons of men of mark and rule — 
Centurions and the like — were wont to swarm, 
With slate and satchel on sinister arm. 
And the poor dole of scanty pence to pay 
The starveling teacher on the quarter-day : 
But boldly took me, when a hoy, to Rome, 
There to he taught all arts that grace the 

Of knight and senator. To see my dress. 
And slaves attending, you'd have thought no 

Than patrimonial fortunes old and great 
Had furnished forth the cliai'ge.s of mv state. 
W^hen with my tutors, he would still be by, 
Nor ever let me wander from his eye ; 
And, in a word, he kept me cliaste (and this 
Is virtue's crown) from all that was amiss. 
Nor such in act alone, hut in repute. 
Till even scaiidal's tattling voice was mute. 
No dread luid lie that men might taiuit or 

Should I, some future day, as auctioneer, 
Or, like himself, as tax-collector, seek 
With petty fees my liumhle means to eke. 
Nor sliould I then have murmured. Now T 

ISfore earnest tlninks, and loftier praise I owe. 
Itt^asoii must fail me ere [ cease to own 
With pride that I liave su(;h a father known. 
Nor shall 1 stoop my hirth to vindicate, 

HORACE.— 16 

liy charging, like the licrd, tlio wrrmj:; on Fate, 

That I was not of noble lineage sprung : 

Far other creed inspires my heart and tongue. 

For now should Nature hid all living men 

Ketrace their years, and live them o'er again, 

Each culling, as his inclination bent, 

His parents for himself — with mine content, 

I would not choose whom men endow, as great, 

With the insignia and seats of state; 

And, though I seemed insane to vulgar eyes, 

Thou wouldst perchance esteem me truly wise 

In thus refusing to assume the care 

Of irksome state I was unused to bear. 

Tnmsl. ()/' Theodore Martin. 


Should then my humorous vein run wild, some 

latitude allow. 
I learned the habit from the best of fathers, 

who employed 
Some living type to stamp the vice he wishe<l 

me to avoid. 
Thus temperate and frugal when exhorting me 

to be, 
And with the competence content which he had 

stored for me, 
" Look, boy," he'd say, " at Albius's son — ob- 
serve his sorry plight ! 
And Barrus, that poor beggar there ! Say, are 

not these a sight 
To warn a man from squandering his patri- 
monial means ? 
The reasons why this should be shunned, and 

that be sought 
The sages will explain. Enough for nie if [ 

The faith and morals handed down from our 

good sires of old ; 
And while you need a guardian, keep your life 

pure, and your name. 
When years have hardened, as they will, your 

judgment and your frame, 
You'll swim without a iloat." 

HORACE.— 17 

And so, with talk like this, he won 
And moulded nie while yet a bo3\ Was some- 
thing to be done, 
Hard it might be — '' for this," he'd say, " good 

warrant you can quote." 
And then as model pointed to some public man 

of note. 
Or was there something to be shunned, then he 

would urge, " can you 
One moment doubt that acts like these are base 

and futile too, 
Which have to him and his such dire disgrace 

and trouble bred ? " 
And as a neighbor's death appals the sick, and 

by the dread 
Of dying forces them to put upon their lusts 

So tender minds are oft deterred from vices by 

the taint 
They see theni bring on others' names ; 'tis 

thus that I from those 
Am all exempt, which bring with them a train 
of sliame and woes. 

2'ransl. o/' Theodore Martix. 
The poems of Horace were published by 
him under the respective lieads of Satires^ 
Odes, and EpiHfles. But onlj'a small part 
of tlie first class are "Satires," in our usual 
acceptation of the word. The poem in 
whicii his father is so tenderly spoken of, 
appears among the tSafires, as does also tlic 
one in whicli he describes his daily lif(! at 
his Sabine farm. In tlic latter poem, iiow- 
evcr, there are several purely satiiical 
]»assagcs. The cleverest of these is where 
Davas, his servant, to whom he is no hero, 
ridicules bis master for sundry foibles. 

Horace's satire upon himsklf. 

[Davus lorixdtw.'] 
You're ])raising up incessantly 
Tho habits, manners, likings, ways, 

UOllACE.— 18 

Of people in the good old days ; 

Yet, should some god this moment give 

To you the power like them to live, 

You're just the man to say, "I won't!" 

Because in them you either don't 

Believe, or else the courage lack 

The truth through thick and thin to back; 

And rather than its heights aspire, 

Will go on sticking in the mire. 

At Komo, you for the country sigh ; 
When in the country, to the sky 
You — flighty as the thistle's down — 
Are always crying up the town. 
If no one asks you out to dine, 
Oh, then the 2)ot-au-/eu^ s divine ! 
You " go out on compulsion only — 
'Tis so delightful to be lonely ; 
And drinking bumpers is a bore 
You shrink from daily more and more.'* 

P>ut only let Maecenas send 
Command f(n- 3'ou " to meet a friend ; " 
Although the message comes so late 
The lamps are being lighted, straight, 
" Where's my pomade ? Look sharp ! " you 
shout ; 

" Heavens ! is there nobody about ? 
Are you all deaf ? " And storming high 
At all the household, off you fly. 
When Milvius, and that set, anon 
Arrive to dine, and find you gone. 
With vigorous curses they retreat — 
Which 1 had rather not repeat. 

Transl. o/'Thkodouk Martin. 

A " Satire," in Horace's use of the word, 
is a picture of Men and Manners, as he 
saw them from time to time. Sometimes 
he hishes great crimes and criminals with 
a severity hardly less indignant than that 
of Juvenal. But as a rule he ilies at lower 
game — at the foibles and weaknesses of 
society — at fops, fools, and bores, and 
the like, 


HORACE.— 19 


It chanced that I, the other day- 
Was sauntering up the Sacred Way, 
And musing, as my habit is, 
Some trivial random fantasies, 
When there comes rushing up a wight 
Whom only by his name I knew. 
" Ha ! my dear fellow, how d'ye do ? " 
Grasping my hand, he shouted. ''Why, 
As times go, pretty well," said I ; 
" And you, I trust, can say the same." 

But after me as still he came, 

'' Sir, is there anything," I cried, 

" You want of me ? " " Oh," he replied, 

'' I'm just the man you ought to know : 

A scholar, author ! " " Is it so ? 

l^or this I'll like you all the more ! " 

Then, writhing to escape the bore, 
I quicken now my pace, now stop. 
And in my servant's ear let drop 
Some words ; and all the while I feel 
r)athod in cold sweat from head to heel. 
"; Oh, for a touch," 1 moaned in pain, 
" IJolaiius, of thy madcap vein, 
To put this incubus to rout !" 
As he went chattering on about 
Whatever he descries or meets — 
The city's growth, its splendor, size. 

" You're dying to be off," he cries : 
(For all the while IM been st(»ck dumb) ; 
" I've seen it this half-hour. I>ut come. 
Let's clearly understand each other ; 
It's no use making all this pother. 
My mind's made up to stic^k by you ; 
So where you go, there I go too." 
"Don't put yourself," I answered, "pray. 
So very far out of your way. 
I'm oil th(! road to see a friend 
AVhom you don't know, tliat's near his cud, 
Away beyond the Tiber far, 
(Jlos(! by wh(M-e (Ja'sar's gardens arc." 
" I've nothing in the world to do, 


nORAOE.— '20 

And what's a paltry mile or two? 
I like it; so I'll follow you!" 

Down dropped my ears on hearing this 
Just like a vicious jackass's, 
That's loaded heavier than he likes, 
But off anew my torment strikes : 

"If well I know myself, you'll end 
With making of me more a friend 
Thau Yiscus, ay, or Varius ; f(jr 
Of verses who can run off more. 
Or run them off at such a pace ? 
Who dance with such distinguished grace? 
And as for singing, zounds!" says he, 
" Hermogenes might envy me !" 

Here was an opening to break in : 
"Have you a mother, father, kin, 
To whom your life is precious ? " " None ; 
I've closed the eyes of every one." 
Oh, happy they, I inly groan ; 
Xow I am left, and I alone. 
Quick, quick dispatch me where I stand; 
Now is the direful doom at hand. 
Which erst the Sabine beldam old, 
Shaking her magic urn, foretold 
In days when 1 was j-et a boy : 
" Him shall no poison fell destroy, 
Nor hostile sword in shock of war, 
Nor gout, nor colic, nor catarrh. 
In fulness of time his thread 
Shall by a prate-apace be shred ; 
So let him, when he's twenty-one, 
If he be wise, all babblers shun." 

Transl. o/" Theodore Martin. 

The Odesi of Horace cover a great vari- 
ety of topics, grave and ga\\ Many of 
them are love songs ostensibly addressed 
to several of his " attachments," though it 
is not altogether certain that lUiriiie, CUiloe, 
Glycera, Lalage, Leueonoe, LA'dia, Phyllis, 
p3".'rha, Tyndaris, and the others were all 
of them real personages. But it is certain 
that he formed intimacies, of more or less 


HORACE.— 2t 

diiraiion, with not a few of the hefairct', 
who were, after all, about the onlj^ intelli- 
gent women with whom a middle-aged 
Roman bachelor would be likely to come 
in contact. None of these love-poems are 
gross, and in few of them is there display- 
ed any great depth of passion. One of the 
most characteristic of these poems is the 
following colloquy in which " lie " is sup- 
posed td represent Horace himself, and the 
" She " the charming, though not over- 
constant Lydia. 


Whilst I was dear, and thou wert kind, 

And I — and 1 alone — might lie 
Upon tliy snowy breast reclined, 
Not I'ersia's king so blest as I. 
Whilst I to thee was all in all, 

Nor Chleo might with Lydia vie, 
Renowned in ode or niiidrigal, 
Not Roman Ilia famed as I. 
I now am Thracian Chloe's slave, 

With hand and voice that charm the air. 
For whom even death itself T'd brave, 
So Fate the darling girl would spare. 
I dote on Calais ; and 1 

Am all his jiassioii, all his care, 
For whom a double di'ath IM die, 

So Fate the darling boy would spare. 
What if our ancient lov(^ n-iurn. 
And bind us with a ('loser tic, 
If 1 the fair-haired (!hloe spurn. 
And, as of old, for Ljdia sigh ? 
Though lovelier (ban yon star is he. 

And lighter thou than cork — ah, wliy ? 

HORACE.— 22 

Morn churlish too than Adria's sea, 
With thoo IM live, with thee I'd die. 

Trausl. r>/'Tm:(H)OKK iMakttn'. 

Many of the Odes of Horace can hardly 
be considered lyrical, but -are rather ^rave 
ethical reproofs. The following is di- 
rected against the two great vices which 
threatened the existence of tlu^ Konian 
State — the luxury and avarice of the rich, 
and the turbulence of the lower classes. 


Thouorli India's virgin mine, 
An<l wealth of Arahy be thine ; 
Though tliy wave-circled palaces 
Usurp the Tyrrhene and Apulian seas 
When on thy devoted head 
The iron hand of Fate has laid 
The symbols of eternal doom, 
What power shall loose the fetters of the dead? 
What hope dispel the terrors of the tomb? 
Hajipy the nomad tribes whoso wains 
Drag their rude huts o'er Scythian plains; 
Happier the (betan horde 
To whom unmeasured fields afford 
Ahundant harvests, pastures free : 

For one short year the}'^ toil. 
Then claim once more their liberty, 
And yield to other hands the unexhausted 

The teTider-hearted stopdamo there 

Nurtures with all a mother's care 
Tlie orphan bahe : no wealthy bride 

Insults her lord, or yields her heart 

To the sleek suitor's glozing art. 
The maiden's dower is purity, 
Iler parents' worth, her womanly pride, 
To hate the sin, to scorn the lie. 
Chastely to live, or, if dishonored, die. 
Breatlics there a patriot, brave and strong, 
Would right his erring country's wrong, 

27 4'7 

nORACE.— 23 

Woukl hoal her wounds ami quell her rage ? 

Let him, with noble daring, first 

Curb Faction's tyranny accurst. 
So may some future age 

Grave on his bust with pious hand, 

The Father of his Native Land. 
Virtue yet living we despise. 
Adore it lost, and vanished from our eyes. 

Cease idle wail ! 
The sin unpunished, what can sighs avail ? 

How weak tlie laws by man ordained 

If Virtue's law be unsustained. 
A second sin is thine ! The sand 
Of Araby, Gaetulia's sun-scorched land. 
The desolate regions of Hyperborean ice, 
Call with one voice to wrinkled Avarice : 
He hears ; he feels no toil, nor sword nor sea : 
Shrinks from no disgrace but virtuous poverty 

Forth ! 'mid a shouting nation bring 
Th}' precious gems, thy wealth untold ; 

Into the seas or Temple fling 
Thy vile, unprofitable gold. 

Roman, repent, and from within 

Eradicate thy darling sin ; 

Kepont, and from thy bosom tear 

The sordid shame that festers there. 

I>id thy <legeiK'rate sons to learn 

In ronglier schools a lesson stern. 

The high-born youth mature in vice, 

Pursues his vain and reckless course, 

Ilolls the Greek lioop, or throws the dice, 

l>ut slums and dreads the horse. 

His perjured sire, with jealous care 
Heaps riches for his worthless heir, 
Despised, disgraced, siiprcnu^ly blest, 
(Cheating his partner, friend, and guest, 

Uncounted stores his bursting colters till ; 

lint something unpossessed is ever wanting 

Transl. q/SiR Stkpiikn de Vkke. 

Once u]ion a time Horace had come to 

HOKACE.— 21 

Kome as the lioiiored guest of Ma'cenas, 
had stayed there rather longer than he 
liked, and wislied to get away. Hy way 
of apology to Ills wealthy and niunifieeut 
friend and patroji he frames the following 
apologue : 


Philip, the famous counsel, on a day 

(A burly mail, and wilful in his way) 

From court returning, somewhere about two, 

And grumbling — for his years were far from 

few — 
That his home in Ship-Street was so distant, 

But from the Forum half a mile or so, 
Descried a fellow in a barber's booth 
All by himself, his chin shaved fresh and 

Trimming his nails, and witli the easy air 
Of one uncumbcred by a wish or care, 
" Demetrius !" ('twas his page, a bo)- of tact 
In comprehension swift, and swift of act,) 
'' Go ascertain his rank, name, fortune; track 
His father, patron !" In a trice he's back. 

"An auction-crier, Volteius Mena, sir, 
Means poor enough, no spot on character; 
Good or to work or idle, get or sj)end, 
Has his own house, d(;lights to see a friend. 
Fond of the play, and sure, when work is done, 
Of those who crowd the campus to make one." 
" I'd like to hear all from himself. Away ! 
Bid him come dine with me — at once — to- 

Mena some trick in the request divines, 
Turns it all ways, then civilly declines, 
"What! says me nay?" 'Tis, even so, sir. 

Can't say. Dislilu-s you, or, more likely, shy." 

Xext morning I 'hiiip scarclies Mena out, 
An<l iinds him vending to a rablijc rout 
Old crazy lumber, frippery of the worst, 
And with all courtesy salutes him lirst. 

HORACE.— 25 

Menu pleads occupation, ties of trade, 

His services else he would by dawu have paid 

At Philip's house ; was grieved to think that 

He should have failed to notice him till now. 
'' On one condition I accept your plea. 
You come this afternoon and dine with me." 
" Yours to command." " Be there, then, sharp 

at four. 
Now go, work hard, and make your little more ! " 

At dinner Mena rattled on, ex])ressed 
AVhate'er came upi)ermost, then home to rest. 
The hook was baited craftily, and when 
The fish came nibbling ever and again. 
At morn a client, and when asked to dine, 
Not now at all in humor to decline. 

Pliilip himself one holiday drove him down 
To see his villa some few miles from town. 
]\Iena keeps praising up the whole way there 
The k^abine country and the Sabine air. 
So Philip sees his fish is fairly caught. 
And smiles with inward triumph at the 

thought ; 
Kesolved at any price to have his whim, 
Por that is best of all repose to liim. [then. 

Seven hundred pounds he gives him there and 
Proffers on easy terms as much again ; 
And so persuades him that, with tastes like his, 
He ought to buy a farm. So bought it is. 

Not to detain you longer than enough 
The dapper cit becomes a farmer bluff. 
Talks drains aTid subsoils, ever on the strain, 
(!ro\vs lean, and ages with the lust of gain. 
l>ut when his sheep are stolen, when murrains 

His goats, and bis best crops arc kilb'd with 

When at the plough liis oxen drop down dead, 
St ting witli his losses, up one night from bed 
ill! springs, and on a cart-liorse makes his way 
All wrath to IMiilip's hous(>, by break of day. 
" How's this '/ " cries J'kilip, seeing liiui un- 


nOIlACE.— 26 

Antl i?hui)l)y. " Why, Volteius, you look worn. 
You work, iuetliiiik.s, too long upon tho strt^tcli." 
" Uli, tliiit's not it, my p;itrou. Call mu 

wretch ; 
That is tlio only fitting name for me. 
Oh by tlio (ionius, by the gods that be 
Thy liearth's protectors, I beseech, implore. 
Give me, oh, give me back my life of yore !" 
If for the worse you find you've changetl 

your place. 
Pause not to think, but straiglit your steps 

In every state the maxim still is true, 
On your own last take care to iit your shoe. 
7Va?id. o/' TuEODOitK Maktin. 

The health of Horace was always deli- 
cate, and he began to age rapidly. At 
forty-four his black hair had turned to 
gray. We liiid him anxiously inquiring 
lor the healtliiest and most comfortable 
places to visit. 

A valktuj)Xaiiian's inquiries. 
Which plact; is best supplied with corn, d'ye 

think ? 
J lave they rain-water or fresh springs to 

drink ? 
Their wines I care not for ; when at my farm, 
I can drink any sort without nmch harm ; 
])ut at the sea I need a generous kind 
To warm my veins and pass into my mind. 
Enrich me with new hopes, choice words 

And make me comely in a lady's eye. 
Which tract is best for game ? On which sea- 
Urchins and other lish abouTid the most ? 
That so, when [ return my friends may see 
A sleek I'hauiciaii come to life in nie : 
These things ^'ou needs must tell me, Vala 

And i no less must act on what I hear. 

Tnind. oyCuMNCiTON. 


HORACE.— 27 


Let not the frowns of fute 

Disquiet thee, my friend, 
Nor when she smiles on thee, do thou elate 

Witli vaunting thoughts ascend 
Beyond the limits of becoming mirth, 
For Dellius thou must die, become a clod of 

Thy woods, thy treasured pride, 
Thy mansion's pleasant seat, 
Thy lawns washed by the Tiber's yellow tide, 

Each favorite retreat, 
Thou must leave all — all, and thine heir shall 

In riot through the wealth thy j-ears of toil 
have won. 

One road, and to one bourne 
We all are goaded. Late 
Or soon will issue from the urn 

Of unrelenting Fate 
The lot, that in yon bark exiles us all, 
To undiscovered shores, from wliich is no re- 

TransL o/'Theuduuk .Mautin. , 


For me, when freshened by my spring's pure 

Wliicli makes my villagers look i)inched and 

What prayers are mine ? " Oh, may 1 3'et 

The goods I have, or, if heaven plcast^s, less. 

Let the few years tliat Kate ma\- grant me 

Be all ni}' own, not licld at otbcrs' will ! 
Let me have boolis, and st(»r('s for one year 

Nor make my life one thiltcr of suspens(!. 

You're not a miser: bas all other vice 
J)e])arted iu tlic train of avarice '/ 


Ordo aiiibitious luii^nni^s, :uii;ry fret, 
The terror of the grave torment you yet ? 
Do you count up your birtlidays by the year, 
And thank the gods with gladness and good 

O'erlook the failings of your friends, and 

Gentler and better as your sands run low ? 
But I forbear ; sufficient 'tis to pray 
To Jove for what he gives and takes away ; 
Grant life, grant fortune, for myself I'll lind 
That best of blessings, a contented mind. 

Transl. o/"Conington. 

The longest and one of tlie latest of 
the poems of Horace is the Epistle to 
the Pisos, generally known as the Ars 
Poetlca ; of wliich the summation is 

Of writing well, be sure the secret lies 
In wisdom : therefore study to be wise. 

Not long after the Ars Poetica was pub- 
lished, Miccenas died at the age of about 
sixty-live. Almost with his parting breath 
he commended his friend to the kindly 
remembrance of Augustus : " Iloraii Flac- 
ci ut mei esto memor.'" — Let Horatius 
Flaccus be borne in memory as myself. 
Maecenas died at midsummer. Before the 
year ended Horace also passed into the 
Hereafter. He liad neither kith nor kin, 
and left what modest means he possessed 
to Augustus Ciesar. He was buried on 
the slope of the Esquiline hard by the tomb 
of his friend Ma'cenas. Tlie marble tond) 
has long since crumbled to dust; but the 
poet had built for himself a monument 
which will outlast all marble or bronze. 
iiouack's monumknt. 
I've roared a monument — my own — 
JMorc durable than brass; 

HORACE.— 29 

Yea kingly pyramids of stone 
In height it doth surpass. 

Rain shall not sap, nor driving blast 

Disturb its settled base, 
Nor countless ages rolling past 

Its symmetry deface. 

I shall not wholly die. Some part, 

Nor that a little, shall 
Escape the dark Destroyer's dart. 

And his grim festival. 

For long as with his Vestals mute, 

Rome's Pontifex shall climb 
The Capitol, my fame shall shoot 

Fresh buds through future time. 

Where howls loud Aufidus and came 
Parched Daunus erst, a horde 

Of mystic boors to sway, my name 
Shall be a hoxisehold word. 

A.S one who rose from mean estate, 

The first with poet's fire, 
.^olic song to modulate 

To the Italian lyre. 

Then grant, Melpomene, thy son 

Thy guerdon proud to wear, 
And De][)hic laurels, duly won. 

Bind thou upon my liair. 

Transl. o/" Theodore Martin. 



llOKNE George, lui English clergyman 
and author, born in 1730; died in 17*J2. 
He was educated at Oxford, was made a 
Fellow of Magdalen College at the age of 
nineteen, and its President at the age of 
thirty-eight. In 1776 he became Vice- 
Chancellor of the Uiuversity. In 1781 lie 
was appointed Dean of Canterbury, and in 
171MJ JJishop of Norwich. His earliest 
works weie of a controversial character, 
intended to suj^port the views of Hutchin- 
son, who rcgai'ded Sir Isaac Newton's phil- 
osophy as contradictory to the Scriptures. 
His most important work is A Commentary 
on the Book of Pmini>i (1770.) The Com- 
mentary was tlui riisult of twenty years 
labor. lie also published numerous 
iSermons, and a volume of Letters on Inji- 
delity (1784.) 


When learning arose, as it were, from the 
dead, in the sixteenth centnry, and tlie study 
of primitive tlieology l)y tliat means revived, 
tlie spiritual inter])ret;ition of tlie Scriptures 
revived with it. It was adopted at tliat time, 
l>y one admirably qualilied to do it justice, and 
to recommend it again to the world hy every 
cliarm of genius, and every ornament of lan- 
guage. 1 mean the accomplislied Erasmus, 
who omittctli nil njiportunity of insistingon tlie 
usefulness and even the necessity of it for tlie 
riglit understanding of the Scriptures; fortius 
attainment of tlie wisdom wliich they teach, and 
that holiness which they j)rescribe. lie con- 
siders a I'salm as it may relate to ilhrist, either 
suffering or triumphant; as it may c<)n(;ern the 
(Iliundi, whether consisting of .Ii'ws (»r Gen- 
tileSjwIiether in adversity or ])ros]n!rity, through 
the several stages and peiiods of its existence; 
and as it may be applicable to the different 



states uirI circuinstaiices of iiHlividual.s, during 
tlie trials and temptations whicli tlit-y meet 
Avith iu the course i>f their Christian pilgrimage. 
It is obvious that every part of the Fsaltor 
when explicated according to" this Scriptural 
and primitive method, is rendered universally 
"profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for cor- 
rection, for instruction in righteousness;" 
and the propriety immediately ap[)ears of ha 
having always been used in the devotional 
way, both by the Jewish and the Christian 
church. With regard to the Jews, Bishop 
(.'handler pertinently remarks, that "they 
must have understood David, their prince, to 
liave been a figure of Messias, They would not 
otherwise have made his Psalms part of their 
daily worship ; nor would David have delivered 
them to the Church to be so emploj-ed, were it 
not to instruct and support them in the knowl- 
edge and belief of this fundamental article. 
Was the Messias not concerned in the Psalms, 
it were absurd to celebrate, twice a day in their 
public devotions, the events of one man's life, 
who was deceased so long ago as to have no re- 
lation now to the Jews, and the circumstances 
of their affairs ; or to transcribe whole passages 
from them, into their prayers for the coming of 
the ^lessiah." Upon the same principle it is 
easily seen, that the objections which may seem 
to lie against tlie use of Jewish services in Chris- 
tian congregations cease at once. Thus, it may 
be said : Are we concerned with the affairs of 
])avid and of Israel ? Have we anything to do 
with the ark and the temple ? They are no 
more. Are we to go up to Jerusalem, and to 
worship on Sion ? They are desolated, and 
troddea under foot by the Turks. Are we to 
sacrifice young bullocks, according to the law ? 
The law is abolished, never to be observed 
again. Do we pray for victory over IVloab, 
I'Mnm, and Philistia; or for deliverance from 
P>al>yli>n ? There are no such nations, no such 
places in tin- world. ^Vh ir then do we mean, 


wluMi taking sufli exprossioiis into our 
mouths, we utter them in our own persons, as 
parts of our devotions hefore God ? Assuredly 
we must mean a spiritual Jerusalem and Siun ; 
a spiritual ark and tem{)le : a spiritual law; 
spiritual sacrifices ; and spiritual victories over 
spiritual eneniics ; all described under the old 
names, which are still retained, though "old 
things are j)assed away, and all things are l>e- 
conie new." J'y substituting I\Iessiah for 
David, the Gosjx-l for the saw, the Chun-h 
(Christian for that of Israel, and the enemies of 
the one for those; of the other, the Psalms are 
made our own. Nay, they are, with more fullness 
and propriety, applied now to the substances, 
than they were of old to tlie " shadow of good 
things to come." And, therefore, ever since 
the commencement of the Christian era, the 
Church hath chosen to celebrate the Gospel 
mysteries in the words of these ancient hymns, 
rather than to compose for that purpose new 
ones of her own. . . . 

The Tsalms, thus applied, have advantages 
which no fresh com2)ositions, however finely 
executed, can jiossibly have ; since beside their 
incomparable iitness to expi-ess our sentiments, 
tlie}' are, at the same time, memorials of, and 
ap])eals to, former mercies and deliverances; 
they are acknowledgements of prophecies ac- 
complished; they point the connection between 
the old and new dispensations, thereby teach- 
ing us to admire and adore the wisdom of God 
displayed in both, and furnishing, while we 
read or sing them, an inexhaustible variety of 
the noblest matter that can engage the contem- 
plations of man. — Preface to (Jornmentary on 
the l*sahns. 



HORNE, Richard Hengtst, an English 
author, born in 1803 ; died in 1884. He 
was educated at the Royal Military Col- 
lege of Sandhurst, served in the Mexican 
army during the war between Mexico and 
Spain, travelled in the United States and 
Canada, and on his return to England, de- 
voted himself to literature. In 1837-8 he 
published throe tragedies : Cosmo de 3fedi- 
ci^ The Death of llarlowe, and The Death 
Fetch. These were followed by The Expo- 
sition of the False Medium and Barriers 
excluding Men of G-enius from the Public 
(1838), Gregory the Seventh, a Tragedy 
1840), The Life of Napoleon,\%\l'), Orion, 
an Fpic Poem (1843), first sold at a fartli- 
ing a copy — the author's way of express- 
ing his sense of the low estimation in 
which epic poetry was held. The Neiv 
Spirit of the Ar/e, a collection of biograph- 
ical sketches of authors (1844), Ballads 
and Romances, and The Spirit of Peers 
and People, a tragic-comedy (1840), Judas 
Iscariot, a Miracle Play (1840), The Poor 
Artist, or Seven Eyesights and One Object 
(1850), The Dreamer and the Worker, a 
novel (1851), The Oood-Natvred Bear, a 
story for children, and Promrf Jims the Fire 
Bringer, a lyrical drama. In 1852 he ac- 
companied Williaiii Howitt and liissonsto 
Australia, wliere he remained for twelve 
years, serving successively as Commis- 
sioner of the (Told-Fiekls, Territorial Mag- 
istrate, Commissioner of the Yan Yean 
Water Supply, and Mining Registrar. 
After liis return to England, lie published 
Laura Diblazo, a tragedy, John the Bap- 
tint, or the Valor of a Soul, The Apocryphal 
Hook of Job's Wife, and many contribu- 
tions to periodical literature. 


RICH Ann nFAvusT noi^Nr:.— 2 


The cloud oxpaiiducl darkly o'jt the heavens, 
Which, like a vault i»rej)ariiig to gave hack 
The lujroic dead, yawned with its sacred gloom, 
And iron-crowned Night her hlack breath 

poured around, 
To meet the clouds that from Olympus rolU'cl 
I^illows of darkness W'ith a dirging roar. 
Which l)y gradations of high harmony [<'yes 
Merged in triumphal strains. Their earnest 
Filled with the darkness, and their hands still 

Kneeling the Goddesses' bright rays perceived, 
Ivetlected, glance before them. Mute they rose 
With tender consciousness ; and, hand in hand, 
Turning, they saw slow rising from the sea 
The luminous Giant clad in blazing stars. 
New-born and tr(Mul)ling from their Maker'.s 

breath — 
Divine, refulgent effluence of Love. 
Though to his insubstantial form no gleam 
Of mortal lifer's rich colors now gave warmth. 
Yet was the image he had worn on earth. 
With all its memories of the old dim woods — 
The caves — his toils, joys, griefs — the fond 

old vva3^s — 
The same — his heart the same e'en as of yore. 
With pal(! gold shield, like a translucent Moon 
Through which the Morning with ascending 

Sheds a soft blush, warming cerulean veins; — 
With radiant belt of glory, typical 
Of happy change that o'er the zodiac round 
Of the world's monstrous phantasies sliall 

come ; 
And in his hand a sword of peaceful power, 
Streaming like a meteor to direct the earth 
To victory over life's distress, and show 
"^riie future path wliose light runs through 

death's glooms ; — 
In grandeur, like the birth of Motion, rose 
The glorious Giant, tow'rds his place iu 

Iieaven j 



And, while ascending, thus liis Spirit sang: 
'• I came into tlie world a mortal creature, 
Lights flitting upward through my unwrought 

Not knowing wdiat they were, nor whither 

But of some goodness conscious in my soul. 
With earth's rude elements my first endeavor 
I made ; attained rare master}^, and was proud, 
Then felt strange longings in the grassy wood- 
And hunted shadows under the slant sun. . . . 
"Thou Earth, whom I have left, and all my 
brothers ! 
Followers of Time through steep and thorny 

Wrestlers with strong Calamity, and falling 
For ever, as with generations new 
Y^e carry on the strife — deem it no loss 
That in full vigor of his fresh designs, 
Y(mr Worker and your Builder hath been 

To rest thus undesired. Though for himself 
Too soon, and not enough of labor done 
For high desires ; sufficient yet to give 
The impulse ye are fitted to receive : 
More, were a vain ambition. Therefore strive, 
My course without its blindness to pursue. 
So that ye may through night, as ye behold 

And also through the day by faithful hope, 
Ascend to me ; and he who faints half way, 
(xains yet a noble eminence! o'er those 
Whose feet still plod the earth with hearts 
"Thtui with aspiring love behold Orion ! 
Not for his ne(!d, but for thine own behoof: 
]Ie loved thy race, and calls thee to his side. 
The human spirit is a mountain thing, 
]>ut ere it reach the constelat(>(l thrones, 
It may attain, and on mankin<l bestow, 
Substance, ])recision ; mastery of hand, [HfSj 
JSeauty intense, and power that shapes new 

KICIIAKI) lll!;.N(;iST UOKNK.— 4 

V o sluill f;u'li huiiest lu'ail bccoiiu' ;i chuiiiiii'iii, 
Each high-wrimglit soul a builder bi^yuiul 

The t'vor-huntfd ne'er o'ertakeii 'i'iine, 
For whom so luaiiy youtlifnl Imurs are .slain 
Vainly : the grave's hriiik shows we have bceu 

And still the a;^ed ^(»d his lli-^lit maintains ! 
But not in vain the earth-horn siiall jnirsne, 
E'en though with wayward, often stumlding 

That substance-hearing Shadow, if with a soul 
That to an absolute unadulterate truth 
Aspires, and would make active through thfi 

He hath resolved to plant for future years. 
And thus, in the end, each soul may to itself, 
With truth before it as its polar guide, 
liecome both Time and iS'ature, whose fi.\t 

Ar(! spiral, and when lost will liiid new stars, 
IJeyond Juan's unconeeived iidinities. 
And in the Universal INlovement join." 

The song ceased, and at once a chorus hurst 
From all tlic stars in heaven, which now shone 

forth ! 
The ^loon ascends in her rapt loveliness ; 
The ocean swells to her forgivingly : 
Bright comes the dawn, and Eos hides her 

Glowing with tears divine, within the bosom 
Of great Poseidon, in his rocking car 
Standing erect to gaze upon his son. 
Installed midst golden tires, which ever melt 
In Eos's breath and beauty ; rising still 
With nightly brilliance, merging in tha 

drawn — 
And circling onward in eternal youth. — Orion. 


The wisdom of numkind creeps slowly on, 
Subject to every doubt that can retard 
Or fling it back upon an earlier time ; 


So timid are man's footsteps in thu dark, 
But blindest those wlio have no inward light. 
One mind, perchance, in every age contains 
The sum of all before, and much to come ; 
Much that's far distant still ; but that full 

Companioned oft by others of like scope. 
Belief and tendency and anxious will, 
A circle small transpierces and illumes : 
Expanding, soon its subtle radiance 
Falls blunted from the mass of flesh and bone, 
Tlie man who for his race might sui^ersede 
The work of ages, dies worn out — not used. 
And in his track disciples onward strive, 
Some hair-breadths oidy from his starting- 
point : 
Yet lives he not in vain ; for if his soul 
Hath entered others, though imperfectly, 
The circle widens as the world spins round — 
His soul works on while he sleeps 'neath the 

So let the firm Philosopher renew 
His wasted lamp — the lamp wastes not in 

Though he no mirrors for its rays may see. 
Nor trace them through tlie darkness ; let the 

Which feels primeval im])ulses, direct 
A forthright plough, and make his furrow 

With heart untiring while one iield remains; 
So let the herald poet shed his thoughts 
Like seeds that seem but lost upon the wind. 
Work in the night, thou sage, while Mam- 
mon's brain 
Teems with low visions on his cDUtih of down; 
Ih-eak thou tlie clods while high-toned Vanity, 
Midst glaring lights and trumpets, holils its 

court ; 
Sing thou thy song amidst thu stoning t;rowd, 
'I'hcn stand apart, obscure to man, with God. 
— Orion. 



IIORNE, 'J'lio.MAs IIart\vi:ll, uii Eng- 
lish clcrtj^ynum iiiul author, born in 1780; 
(lied in lbG2. JIc l)e^au his education iu 
Christ J I OS] lital School, but! lis father's death 
compelled him, when lifteen years old, to 
(juit school, iu order to assist in supporting- 
Jiis younger brothers and sisters. During 
eight years of employment as a barrister's 
clerk, he devoted his leisure to study, and 
to writing. His first work, A Brief View 
of the Necessitif and Truth of the ChriHtian 
Jteligion, published iu 1800, passed through 
several editions. The necessity which he 
felt for aid in his study of the Sci-ipturcs 
led him to the composition of his great 
work the Introduction, tu the Critical Study 
and Knowledge of the Holy Scriptures^ 
which appeared in 1818. The next year 
lie was admitted to the ministry of the 
Anglican Church, his work being taken as 
evidence of his iitness for the Holy Orders. 
His first parishes were small, and he had 
much leisure, which he employed in writing. 
Jn 1833 he was given a rectorship in 
[vondon. Forty-five volumes were pub- 
lished by him, on commerce, law, tlieology, 
and art. Of some he was editor, of others 
translator, of others author. Among them 
are : The Lakes of Lancatihire, Westmore- 
land^ and Cumherland, The Works of Wil- 
liam Hoyarth elucidated by Descriptions^ 
Critical, Moral and Historical, A Protes- 
tant Memorial, Mariolatry, The Scripture 
Doctrine of the Trinity, JJcism Refuted ; 
A History of the Mohammedan Empire in 
Spain, and A Manual of Biblical Biogra- 


From tho ignorance and uncertainty, wliicli 
28 «3 


prevailed among some of the greatest teachers 
of antiquity, conceiuiing those fuiidainental 
truths wliieli are the great barriers of virtue 
and religion, it is evident that the heathens 
Iiad no perfect scheme of moral rules for j)iety 
and good manners. Thus, with the exception 
of two or three philosophers, they never 
inculcated the duty of loving our enemies and 
of forgiving injuries; but on the contrary, 
they accounted revenge to be not only lawful, 
but commendable. Pride and the love of 
popular applause (the subduing of which is the 
first prinoij)le of true virtue) were esteemed 
the best and greatest incentives to virtue and 
noble actions ; suicide was regarded as the 
strongest mark of heroism ; and the pei'petra- 
tors of it, instead of being branded with 
infamy, were commended and celebrated as men 
of noble minds. But the interior acts of the 
soul — the adultery of the eye and the murder 
of the heart were little regarded. On the con- 
trary, the philosophers countenanced both by 
arguments and examj)le, the most flagitious 
practices. Thus theft, as is well known, was 
permitted in Egypt and in Sparta. The ex- 
posure of infants, and the putting to death of 
iliildren who were weak or imperfect in form, 
was allowed at Sparta by Lycurgus. At 
Athens, the great seat and nursery of ])hiloso- 
phers, the women were treated and disposed of 
as slaves, and it was enacted that '' infants 
which appeared to be maimed should either be 
killed or exposed; "' and that " the Athenians 
might lawfully invade and enslave any people, 
wlio in their opinion were fit to be made 

Corresponding with such princijdes was the 
moral conduct of the ancients — the most 
distinguished philosophers and heroes not 
excepted — whose lives are recorded by Plutarch 
in a nianner the most favorable to their reputa- 
tion. Many of them, it is true, entertained a 
high sense of honor, and possessed a large portion 



of patriotism. But thesewere not moraliti/, if 
by ihat term we are to understand sudi dis- 
positions of the mind as are right, fit, and 
amiable. Their sense of honor was not of that 
kind which made them scorn to do evil ; but, 
like tlie false honor of modern duellists, con- 
sisted merely in a dread of disgrace. Hence 
many of them not only pleaded for self-murder 
(as Cicero, Seneca, and others) but carried 
about with them the means of destruction, of 
which they made use rather than fall into the 
hands of their adversaries, as Demosthenes, 
Cato, Brutus, Cassius, and others did. And 
their patriotism, generally speaking, ojterated 
not merely in the preservation of their coun- 
try, but in endeavors to extend and aggrandize 
it at the expense of other nations. It was a 
patriotism inconsistent with justice and good 
will to mankind. Truth was but of small ac- 
ci)unt among many, even of the best heathens ; 
for they taught that, on many occasions, a 
lie was to be preferred to the truth itself. To 
which we may add. that the unlimited grati- 
fication of their sensual appetites, and the 
commission of the most unnatural crimes, 
was Common even among the most distin- 
guished teachers of philosophy. — Introduction 
to the Holy Scriptures. 


Admirably as the doctrines of the Xew 
Testament are adapted to the actual condition 
and wants of m.ankind, the moral precepts 
which it enjoins are not less calculated to 
promote their happiness and well-being, both 
collectively and individually. In it the best 
descriptions of virtue are to be found : and the 
whole volume is replete with piety, and with 
devotional virtues, which were utterly un- 
known to the ancient heathen moralists. In- 
deed, the view of human duty, exhibited by 
them, was not only radically defective and 
materially erroneous; but the manner of its 



exhibition was little calculated to impress the 
mind, affect the heart, or influence the conduct. 
Abstruse reasonings upon the fitness of things 
— general declarations concerning the beaut}' 
of virtue — cold and inanimate precepts of con- 
duct, if not contradicted, yet imperfectly ex- 
emplified in their own behavior — might in some 
degree exercise their pupils' faculties of reason- 
ing and memory, and render them subtle dis- 
putants, and pompous declaimers ; but they 
had little tendency to enlighten their minds in 
the knowledge of moral truth, and to imbue 
their hearts with the love of moral excellence. 
It is far otherwise with the morality of the 
Scriptures, and especially of the New Testa- 
ment. While the system of moral truth which 
they evolve is incomparably more pure than 
that of the heathen moralist, it is not, like his, 
couched in cold generalities or in abstract 
uninteresting language. It is pure and 
rational, alike remote from the overstrained 
precepts of superstition and enthusiasm, and 
the loose compliant maxims of worldly policy. 
It comes home to men's business and bosoms. 
It is deeply impressive, and it is perfectly 
intelligible. It is calculated for every rank 
and order of society, and speaks with equal 
strictness and authority to the rich and honor- 
able, to the poor and ignoble. All other 
systems of morals prohibit actions but not 
tlioughts, and therefore are necessarily inef- 
fectual. But the moral system of Christianity, 
infinitely superior to all the defective systems 
of men, pervades every thought of the lieart ; 
teaches us to refer all our actions to the will of 
our Creator; and corrects all seliisliness in the 
human character, by teacluTig us to have in 
view the happiness of all amund us, and en- 
forcing tlie most enlarged and diffusive benev- 
olence. — Introduction to the Holy /Scriptures. 


HORSLKY, SAMrHL,anEnglisli clergy- 
man and aiitlujr, horn iu 1783 ; died in 
1800. He was the son of a clergyman; 
was educated in Westminster School and 
at Cambridge University; entered the 
church, was first his father's curate at 
Newington Hutts, and afterwards succeed- 
ed him as rector. In 1767 he was made a 
member of the Royal Society, and its sec- 
retary iu 1773. After several ecclesiasti- 
cal promotions, he became Bishop of St. 
David's in 17.S<S, of Rochester in 1793, and 
of St. Asaph's in 1802. In 1783-84 his 
controversy with Dr. Priestley on Unitari- 
anism took place, in the course of Avhich 
he published two A^olumes of Letters in 
reply to Doctor Priestlei/, and Jlenuirks on 
Dr. Priestley n Second Letter. Jiesides 
these volumes of conti-oveisy, he ])ublished 
works on mathematics, language, and 
theology. Among them are Iteuiarks on 
the Observations made in the late Voyage 
towards the North Pole., for determininy 
the Acceleration of the Pendulum in lat. 
79'* 51' (1774), On the Prosodies of the 
Greek and Latin J^anyuayes (179(1), and 
Critical Disquisitions on the Eiyhteenth 
Chapter of Isaiah (1796). He also pub- 
lislied a complete edition of the works of 
Sir Isaac Newton (1771-85.) After his 
death appeared three volumes of his Ser- 
mons., which aro regarded as among the 
finest in the language. 

OUR lord's skcoxd comixc. 
I shall now venture to conclude tluit. iiot- 
withstaiuling tho great autlioritii's wliicli in- 
cline the other way, that tlie jjhrase of " our 
Lord's coming," wlierevor it occurs in his pro- 
diction of the Jewish war, as well as in most 



other passages of the Xew Testament, is to he 
taken in its literal meaning, as deiioting his 
coming in person, in visible pomp and glory, to 
the general judgment. Nor is the belief of that 
coming, so explicitly foretold, an article of little 
moment in the Christian's creed, however some 
who call themselves Christians may affect to 
slight it. It is true, that the expectation of a 
future retribution is what ought, in the nature 
of the thing, to be a sufficient restraint upon a 
wise man's conduct, though we were uninformed 
of the manner in which the thing will be 
brought a1)out, and were at liberty to suppose 
that every individual's lot would be silently de- 
tcu'mined, without any public entry of the 
Almighty Judge, and without the formality of 
a public trial. 

But our merciful God, who knows how feebly 
the allurements of the present world are re- 
sisted by our reason, unless imagination can be 
engaged on reason's side, to paint the prospect 
of future good, and display the terror of future 
suffering, hath been pleased to ordain that the 
business shall be so conducted, and the method 
of the business so clearly foretold, as to strike 
the profane with awe, and animate the humble 
and the timid. He has warned us — and let 
.them who dare to extenuate the warning, 
]»onder the dreadful curse with which the Book 
of I'ropheey is sealed: ''If any man shall tako 
away from the words of the book of tliis pro- 
phecy, (}od shall take away his ])art out of tho 
book of life." God hatli warned us that tho 
ini[uiry into every man's conduct will bo pub- 
li<- — <'lirist himself the Judg(^ — the whole race 
of ni;in, and the whole angelic host, spectators 
of tli(! awful scene. IJefore that assembly, 
every man's good deeds will be declared, and 
his most secret sins disclosed. As no elevation 
of rank will then give a title to respect, no ob- 
scurity of condition sliidl exclude the just from 
j)ublic honor, m- sereen tlie guilty from public 
shame. (>pulenre will find itself no longer 

SAMUEL I1()KS[,KY.— 3 

powerful — iMivi'i-ty will l>c no longer Wi'Jik ; 
liirtli will iKJ longer Ite distinguislied, nieunness 
will no longer puss unnotitu'd. TlKi rirli ;in'l 
poor will indeed strangel}' meet together ; u Inn 
;dl tlie ine(|n:dities of tint pres(Mil lifi- sliull dis- 
:ip|)f:ii-. ;ind tlie ron(|iicrcir :ind liis e:i]>tive, the, 
nit -narrli and Ills sulijcct, till' Inrd :ind liis vassal, 
the statesman and the peasant, the philosopher 
and the unlettered liind, shall iind tln-ir dis- 
tinctions to have been mere illusions. 

The characters and tlie actions of the greatest 
and the meanest have in truth been equally im- 
portant, and equally public ; while the eye of 
the omniscient God hath been equally upon 
them all, while all are at least equally brought 
to answ(!r to their common judge, and the 
angels stand around s])ectators, equally inter- 
ested in the dooms of all. The sentence of 
every man will be pronounced by Him who 
cannot be merciful to those who shall have 
willingly sold themselves to that abject bondage 
from which He died to purchase their redemp- 
tion — who, nevertheless, having felt the power 
of ti-mptation, knows to })ity them that have 
bi'en tempted ; by Him on whose mercy contrite 
frailty may rely, whose anger hardened impen- 
itence must dread. To heighten the solemnity 
and terror of the business, the Judge will visi- 
bly descend from heaven — the shout of the 
archangels and the trumpet of the Lord will 
thunder through the deep — the dead will awake 
— the gloriiied saints will be caught uj) to meet 
the Lord in the air; while the wicked will in 
vain call upon the mountains and the rocks to 
cover them. Of the day and hour when these 
things shall be knoweth no man ; but the day 
and hour for these things are fixed in the eter- 
nal Father's counsels. Our Lord will come — 
He will come unlooked-for, and may come sooner 
than we think. — »Sen/io/us'. 

HOUGHTON, Lord, see Milxes, 




H0USSx4lYE, Arsene, a French au^ 
thor, boin near Laon, in 1815. When 
lie was sixteen years of age he served in 
the army. On Jiis return he found life on 
the farm and in the mill distasteful, and 
gave himself to writing verses. At length 
he resolved to seek his fortune in Paris. 
On the way thither he fell in with a eom- 
pany of strolling singers who ended by 
taking his purse, lie arrived in Paris 
almost penniless, and in a cholera season. 
His first resource was the composition of 
extravagant romances for wandering min- 
strels. He at length made the acquaint- 
ance of Theopliile Gautier, who introduced 
him to Gerard de Nerval and other literary 
men, and he become one of a company of 
poets, artists, and literateurs, who hdiabited 
a large house in the Rue Doyenne, made 
celebrated by Gautier and otliers. lie wrote 
novels, poems, and sketches of art, litera- 
ture, and society. Among his early pro- 
ductions are La Ooaronne de Bhuts, Lc 
Sa"pent sous I'Herhe^ Les Revenants^ Made- 
moiselle de Vaudeuil^ and Mademoiselle de 
Kronart, In 1848 he bought tlic; journal 
of IJ Artiste^ of which he assunu'd the 
editorship. From 1849 to I8r)(] he was 
director of the ('o)n<;die Fran<;aise, and in 
1850) he was a[)i>ointed Inspector-general 
of tlie works of art and the museums. 
11 is literary activity has continued througli- 
out his lif(!. Aniiiiig his writings are two 
volumes of jjocms : Lex Sentierx Perdus 
(1841 ), and J'odsie dans Irs liois (184;')), 
Jlo/nans, Cotifes, et l^'oi/a'/es (l84(i), Galerie 
de rurirailx <h, Xl'l//' >Sihde (1844), 
Iranslalcd unch-r lit It; of Men <ind Wtrinen 
'if I he /'Jii//ifrenl/i ('eii/ur//, P/ii/nsoidtes el 
<''>?iirdirnni:s (\>^.'>i)), L( 1*11 ill (iiijle de Ccn~ 


drlllon and Xe Voyarjea maFcnrirr (1851), 
Li'S Fcynmi'H ftoux la lu^i/mre et sons la Tfr- 
renr (185:^), Lc Vlohni de Franjole (18.'3G), 
Le Roi Voltaire (1858), Ifistoire de V Art 
Fran(;aU (18(10), Notre Dame de Thermidor 
(1805), Nos Grandes Dames (1808), Les 
PariKenneH (1800-70), and X^s Confes- 
sion a : Soiivenirs d^un Demi-Sierle 1830— 
1880 (1885), in four volnnies, containing 
skelclics of con temporary characters, in- 
cluding Napoleon II f. 


True wisdom does not inli;il)it the world in 
wliich we live. Crebillon collected :dl tlio 
su])ei-lUuties of luxury al)out liiin. In vain 
did his wife strive with both liauds to restrain 
him on the hriidc of ruin; in vain she reminded 
liim of the frugal repasts and })lain furniture 
of their small house in the Place Mauhert, 
" so gay on sunnj'- days." — " True," said lie, 
" aTid if wo are forced to return to it, I shall 
not complain ; wliat matter if the wine is not 
so good, if you still pour it out for me?" 

Happily, Crebillon in the same year se- 
cured victory after victory ; the representa- 
tifMis of Tuhetre were given, which gained the 
suffrages of all, and astonished even the 
critics. Crebillon had softened down his 
brutalities, and preserving all his grandem-, 
had shown himself more natural and more 
true. Electre was followed by lihadamiate, 
which passed then for a powerful [and boldly- 
drawn masterpiece. There is a certain savage 
grandeur in the style, which is the true char- 
acteristic of Crebillon's genius. It was this 
tragedy that gave Voltaire the idea that it 
was better on the stage to strike a strong, 
than a well-directed blow. All the spectators 
enthusiastically decided that Crebillon de- 
lineati^d hate as Kacino did love. The aged 
Boileau, who was near his end, and would 

44 > 


have been glad to have had French literature 
terminate with himself, said that this success 
was scandalous. " I have lived too long ! " 
he cried, in violent ill-humor. " To what 
Visigoth do I leave the French stage a prey ! 
The Pradons, whom we have so often ridi- 
culed, were eagles compared to these." Boileau 
had some resemblance to old Nestor in the 
Iliad, who said to the Greek Kings, '' I coun- 
sel 3'ou to listen to me, for I formerly asso- 
ciated with men who were better than your- 

The parterre avenged Crebillon for Boileau's 
bitter critique, for in eight days two editions 
of JihadiOiiiste were exhausted. Nor was 
this all ; the piece, when played at Versailles 
was applauded to the echo. During the re- 
hearsals of Hhadaniiste, Crebillon told his 
friends that he was going to surprise the 
public by a master-stroke. lie was anything 
but modest, and spoke of his genius as anotlier 
man would speak of his wine or his hoi-se. 
Nevertheless, at the end of the second act he 
trembled for his success, for if the spectators 
were surprised, it was that they did not un- 
derstand what was going on. But at last, 
Avhen the curtain fell, Crcbillon's name was 
received with acclamation. The vigorous 
beauties of his pencil had triuinplied over his 
faults of style and composition. . . . 

The poet was not long, however, in exhaust- 
ing all his resources. He borrowed three 
tliuusaud crowns from Baron Hoguer, who 
was the Providence of Literature under the 
regency ; he sold his copyright of a tragedy 
to a usurer before it was written, wishing to 
|iut (iff as far as possible; the moment when lio 
.•^bnuld b(! forced to change his mode of living, 
lie ("dculatcd oii jlic success of JCercca, but 
that tragc<ly was liissed. Crebillon was a 
inan of heart and courage. \\{\ cnlrred his 
house with a calm and smiling counleiianco. 
"Well?" aslv-eul Madame Crebillon, who had 
been aiixi<iusly awaijting his return. "Well. 



tlicy Iiave hissctd my piore. I'd-ihoitow wo 
will resume our old habits." 

The next da^- ('n'l)illon returned to the 
Place Maubert, where he found small apart- 
ments near his father-in-law's, who in evil 
days could still offer his son a corner of his 
table. Out of all his sjdendid establishment, 
Crebillon only reserved a dozen dogs and cats. 
As D'Alenibert says, "he j^assed without an 
effort, like Alcibiadcs of old, from the lux- 
uries of Persia to the austerities of Sparta, 
and found himself, as Alcibiades doubtless did 
not, hapi)ier iu his latter estate tlian in his 

Charlotte Pcaget carried to her retreat the 
same manner she had shown in society. Not 
once did she repine. Perhaps she appeared 
still more chai'ming to the hissed and })eniii- 
less poet. The poor woman concealed their 
wretchedness from hi in with touching deli- 
cacy. She spread such a charm over the 
gloomy house, that he believed himself almost 
rich; like King Midas, she had the art of 
changing everything she touched to gold; 
that is to say, of giving everything life and 
gayety by lu^r adorable grace, P)lesscd are 
the ]>i)cts who, like Crcbillon, have learned 
that charins and l)eauty are an inexhaustible 
fortune. ^ladame Crebillou never com2)laini'd ; 
she was proud of the poet's glory, she ever 
encouraged him in his lofty character, she 
listened with pious resignation to all his 
dreams of triumph ; she knew the right mo- 
ment to throw herself in his arms, when he 
declared that he had nothing more to expect 
from tlui world. I'^or all this, she ventured 
one (hiy wlii'ii tlicru was no money in the 
house, on seeing him come in with a dog under 
each arm, to say, " Take care. Monsieur do 
('n'l)i]loii ; wt! have eight dogs, we have fif- 
tciMi i^ats,"' — " Well, nnidame, don't I know 
it? But se(( what a ])itiful air these two dogs 
have ; could 1 leave them to die of hunger in 
the streets V " — " l)o you not foresee, Monsieur 



de Crebillon, that they will die of hunger 
here? I appreciate your love and pity for 
the poor animals, but it will not do to make 
your house an hospital for lost dogs." — " Why 
do you despair ? God does not abandon 
genius and beauty. Tiiere is a report tliat 
1 am to be admitted a member of the Acad- 
eiiiy-"— ''I do not think you will," said 
Madame de Crebillon, "Fonteuelle and La 
JMotte, who are only wits, would not permit a 
man like ^ou to sit beside themselves, for if 
you were in the Academy, would you not be 
it3 king?" Crebillon made his application 
for membership in the Academy ; but, as his 
wife had foreseen, Fontenelle and La Motte 
succeeded in excluding him. 

Although Crebillon hated libels and satire, 
he could not restrain himself one day Avhen in 
good spirits from rhyming off, in marotic 
verse, a fable, very bitter in its application 
against La jMotte, Dauchet and Fontenelle. 
La iMotte was designated under the name of a 
mole ; he had already become blind. Dau- 
<;het, who was a Hercules in stature, was 
l»ainted as a camel; Fontenelle, in allusion to 
his finesse, wore a fox's skin. The satire ran 
all over Paris. The three comrades no longer 
contented themselves in closing the avenues 
of the Academy to Crebillon, but sought to 
ruin hiin in public estimation. They had no 
trouble at the Court in succeeding in this 
odious design. A])ropos to this I find these 
lines in iJ'Alembert : "It is well to remark as 
a trial worthy of preservation in the history <>f 
human follies, that the enemies of Crebillon, 
not being able to bring any charge against the 
man, set to work to find in his plays proofs of 
the i)erversify of his character. None but a 
blacl<-hoarted man, according to them, conld 
choosi! th(^ subjects he did." 

La Motte, the Itoyal Censor, had to Ite en- 
treated a long time to grant his ajiprol)ation to 
S< jiiinftnis: at last, tin; few jnotectors of (!re- 
billon having represented to the author of Inez 



ile Cdtitro, tluit nitlier nioru cluirity was need- 
ful in liteniry uiaiinors, La Motte tlius granted 
his imprbnatear: "I have read, by order of 
Monsoigneur the Chancellor, ^Semimmis, a 
tragfdy, by M. de Crcbillon, and I think that 
tlie deatli of .Seniiraniis, in default of remorse, 
may permit one to tolerate tlie publication of 
that tragedy." What could be more j.leasaiit 
tlian the reasons and style of Monsieur the 
Koyal Censor '/ 

All these literary thorns only gave the greater 
charm to Crebillon's home, but we are opening 
the most touching page of his life. One even- 
ing, on returning after a discussion more noisy 
than literary at the Cafe Procopo, Crcbillon 
found his wife Very much agitated, pressing to 
her bosom their sleeping infant. " Charlotte, 
what has happened ? " — " I am afraid,*' she 
said, shuddering and looking toward the bed. 
— " What folly ! 3'ou are afraid of shadows like 
a child." — '' Yes, I am afraid of shadows : a 
little while ago I was about retiring: you see, 
I am but half dressed. In drawing aside the 
curtain I saw a spectre glide past the foot of 
the bed ; I almost fainted, and scarcely had 
strength enough to reach the child's cradle." — 
"You are a child yourself, you saw only the 
shadow of the curtain." — " iSTo, no," said the 
young wife, seizing the poet's hand, " it was 
Death ; I recognized him, for it is not the first 
time he has ai)proached me. Ah, my friend, 
with what grief and terror I shall lay me down 
beneath the ground ! If you love me as 1 do 
you, do not (piit me any more for an instant : 
lielp mo to die. If you are near mo, I shall 
think that I am but going to sh-ep." 

Cn'ltillon, pale and shuddering, took his sou 
and laid him in his cradle. lie returned to his 
wife, enil)raced her, and in vain sought for words 
to divert her attention, and lead her to less 
sombre thoughts. He persuaded lier, witli dif- 
ficulty, to go to rest ; she slept but little. He 
remained silent before the bed, 2)raying in his 



soul, for he believed, perhaps more than Cluir- 
lotte, in presentiments. Finding that she was 
at last asleep, he lay down himself. When he 
awoke in the morning, he found Charlotte, in a 
partially-raised posture, watching his sleep. 
He was terrified at her worn, pale look, and the 
supernatural brilliancy of her eyes — as easily 
moved as an infant, he could not restrain two 
tears. She threw herself despairingly into his 
arms, and covered him with tears and kisses. 
" It is over," she said in a broken voice, " see, 
my heart beats too violently to beat long. But 
I shall die uncomplaining; for I see well, by 
your tears, that you will remember me." 

Crebillon rose, and ran for his father-in-law. 
"Alas ! " said the poor apothecary, '' the mother, 
who was as good and fair as the daughter, died 
at twenty-six. It was the heart that killed the 
mother, and it will kill the daughter." 

All the celebrated ph_ysicians were called in ; 
but before they had agreed on a course of treat- 
ment, Marie Charlotte ]*eaget quietlj' expired 
at eleven o'clock the following evening. Cre- 
billon, inconsolable, was not afraid of ridicule 
in weeping for his wife; he mourned for her 
for half a century, that is to sa}^, until the end 
of his life. For the space of two years he was 
scarcely to be seen at the Comcdie Francjaise. 
]Ie had the air of a man of another age, so 
much did he seem a stranger to all that was 
passing about him. It might ]>c said tliat he 
still lived with his divine Chailotte. The be- 
loved dead live in our hearts ; he saw auvl con- 
versed with her incessantly. After fifteen 
years of mourning, he was snrpris<'d in his soli- 
tude talking aloud to Charlotte, relating to lier 
his vexations, reminding her of their Iiappy 
(lays. '• All, (Charlotte, they all talk to me of ' 
my iiiuw, liut I think only of thee." — Mi n. and 
Women mfthe Kujhtcenth Century. 

I K J W A I { 1), 1 [ KN li Y, E.\ K I . OK S U UJiE Y. 
Sch; SUKKl'A, IvVUI. OK. 


li()\\'M, 1''i»(;aii Watsox, an Anicricaii 
author, boiM in Jiuliaiia, in 1854. Ho be- 
came a j)rinU!r, and in 1878 he Ij ought tlie 
Atchison, Kansas, Daily Globe. He is the 
autlior of The Story of a Coiintn/ Town 
(1884), The Myntery of the Locks (1885,) 
and A MoonUyht Boy (188G.) 


The. Meek sent so many children that tlio 
teacher never pretended to know the exact 
number. Sometimes there were eleven, and 
at other times only seven or eight, for the older 
oites seemed to take turns about, working one 
day and studying the next. I think Tlie. 
ISIeek was about the only man in our country 
who was as good at home as he was at church, 
and his family of white-headed boys were 
laughers like him, and always contented and 
happy. They never learned anything, and my 
re(;ollection is that they all studied out of one 
book while I went to school there, reciting in a 
class by themselves from the same page. If 
the teacher came upon them suddenly in their 
soats, and asked them to name the first letter 
of the alphabet, the chances were that one of 
them would know and answer, whereupon they 
all cried "A/" in a chorus. ]5ut if one of the 
number was called out separately a few mo- 
ments later, and asked the same question, the 
round, chubhy face would luok up into tlie 
teachers and after meditating a while (moving 
his lijjs during thetinn^ as if recalling the rules 
governing such a difficult problem) would hon- 
estly answer that he didn't know. He was then 
sent back to study with the warning that he 
would be called out again presently, and asked 
to name not only the first letter; but tlie second 
and third, and perhaps the fourth. Going back 
to his seat, the white-headed brothers gathered 
about him, and engaged in deep contemjjlation of 
their book for awhile, but one by one their eyes 
wandered away from it again, ami they became 


the prey of any one who had it in hh heart to 
get them into difficulty by setting thorn to huigh- 
ing. If the}' all mastered the first throe letters 
that day they were content, and were so ploasod 
with their progress that they forgot them tlie 
next. — 7%e /SYory of a Country Town. 


I never formed a good opinion of a man there 
that I was not finally told something to liis 
discredit by another citizen, causing me to 
regard him with great suspicion, and if I said 
a good word for any of them, it was proved 
beyond question immediately that he was a 
very unscrupulous, a very ridiculous, a verj'^ 
weak and a very worthless man. There were no 
friendships among thom. and they all hated each 
other in secret, there being much quiet satisfac- 
tion when one of them failed. There seemed to 
be no regular aristocracy, either, for 1 heard so 
frequently how ignorant and awkward the 
prominent citizens were when they first came, 
that I finally found them all out. If Dr. 
Medicine told me what an unpromising lout 
the present magnificent Honorable Legal was 
when he first arrived, and how much difliculty 
he had in getting him introduced into respect- 
able society, I was certain to meet Honorable 
Legal, soon after, and hear him recite a similar 
experience with reference to Dr. Modicine. One 
of the stories, and I found afterwards that it 
was true, was that a man of ordinary worth, 
who seemed to be prosperous, had collected liis 
money of a railroad com]>any in the country lie 
had moved from, because of an injury to liis 
first wife, and that his second was enabled to 
go elegantly dressed because of the misfortune 
of tlm first. Thus it went on until I was fa- 
miliar with the poor origin of all of tliem, and 
]>crhaps this was one reason why we did not 
resjject one another more. 

Very few of the Twin Mounds men liad 
positive opini(jns of their own, as they sooniotl 



to have got them secoiul-liaiulcd from s<):in' 
source; and none of them was original or nat- 
ural in his methods of conducting husiness, or 
in his hal)its. Two or three times a year most 
of them visited a city a good many miles awa}-, 
where they spent a great deal of money they 
could not afford, to create an impression that 
they were accustomed to what tliey sup2)osed 
was good society, and where they met men who 
filled their ideas of greatness. These they 
mimicked, each one choosing a different ex- 
ami)le; so it happened that the men of Twin 
Mounds were very ridiculous. There was a 
lawyer, I remember, who had met, somewhere, a 
distinguished member of his profession, who 
shook hands (Ho ! ho ! ) with everybody, and 
(Ha ! ha! ) 2)atronizing]y wanted to know how 
they were getting along. It was not his nat- 
ural way, and as he only adopted it because 
he believed it would make him popular, it be- 
came him very poorly, l*erhaps it was very 
effective with the man the habit had been coj^ied 
from, but it was very absurd with our citizens, 
whose pretense was that every man he shook 
hands with (and he shook hands cordially with 
everybody) was not getting along as well as 
he in his great compassion desired^ 

As I grew older and began to notice more, 
I thought that every man in Twin Mounds, 
had reason to feel humiliated that he had n(jt 
accomplished more, but most of them were as 
conceited as though there was nothing left in 
the world wortliy of their attention. Their 
small business affairs, their (juarrels over the 
Bible, and an occasional term in the Town 
Council, or a mention for the Legislature or a 
county oflice, satisfied them, and tliey were as 
content as men who really amouut(Ml to some- 
thiug. — The Story of a Country Town. 
29 '»^y 


HOWE, John, an English theologian, 
born in 1630 ; died in 1705. He gradnat- 
ed at Christ's College, became pastor of a 
Non-Conformist Congregation, and in 1657 
become domestic chaplahi to Oliver Crom- 
well, the Lord Protector. After the res- 
toration of Charles II. he resided in many 
places, always engaged in ministerial 
duties. In 1687, when James II. put 
forth his " Declaration for Liberty of Con- 
science," Howe returned to England, where 
the remainder of his life was passed. He 
was a very voluminous author upon theo- 
logical and devotional topics ; and has 
been, not inaptly, styled " the Platonic Pur- 
itan." Robert Hall was wont to say that 
he had learned more from Howe than 
from any other author he had ever read. 
Doddridge says of him : " He seems to 
have understood the gospel as well as any 
uninspired writer, and to have imbibed as 
much of its S])irit. There is tlie truest 
sublime to be found in his writings, and 
some of the strongest pathos. Ho has a 
vast numljer and variety of uncommon 
thoughts, and is, on the whole, one of the 
most valuable writers in t)ur language, or, 
I believe, in the world." The complete 
works of Howe liave been reprinted, in 
1724, with a memoir by Dr. Edward Cal- 
amy, and in 1S48, in three volumes, with 
a Life hy the Rev. J. P. llewletl. His most 
notable works are The Livimj Temple ; De- 
liifhiing in Goil ; The JJlesoednestf of the 
Jiil/hteous ; The Vanity of 3Lin as Mortal ; 
on the Divine Presence ;and The Redeemer s 
Presence over the Invislhle World. Mr. Ilen- 
]-y Roger, wlio in 1836 put fortli a Life of 
Howe with an Analysis of his Writings^ 



thus represents liis j)()siLion and views 
when olillciatiiiti^ as doiiieslic chaplain to 
Oliver Cromwell. 


It was a very })ix'v;ileiit opinion in Croniwt'll's 
court, and seems to liave hi-en entertained l)y 
Cromwell himself, that whenever the '* sj)ecial 
favorites'' of Heaven offered up their sujtplica- 
tions for themselves or otliers, secret intimations 
were conveyed to the mind that the particular 
blessings they implored would he certainly he- 
stowed, and even indications afforded of the par- 
ticular method in which their wishes would be 
accomplished. Howe himself confessed to 
Calamy, in a private conversation on this subject, 
that the prevalence of tlie notion at Whitehall, 
at the time he lived there, was too notorious 
to be denied ; that great pains were taken to 
cherish and diffuse it ; and that he himself had 
lieard " a person of note" preach a sermon with 
the avowed design of maintaining and defend- 
ing it. To point out the pernicious consequences 
of such an opinion would be superfluous. Of 
course, there could be no lack of " special favor- 
ites of Heaven" in an age and court like those 
of Cromwell ; and all the dangerous illusions 
which a fanatical imagination might inspire, 
and all the consequent horrors to which a faii- 
atical zeal could prompt, would of course plead 
the sanction of an express revelation. 



HOWE, Julia Ward, an American 
author, born in New York, in 1819. She 
began to write verses while very young. 
Her first publication was a review of La- 
martine's Jocelyn with an English transla- 
tion. In 1843 she married Dr. Samuel 
Gridley Howe of Boston, with whom in 
1851-53 she conducted an anti-slavery 
paper, The Commomvealth. She was one 
of the founders of the New England 
Women's Club, and is an earnest advocate 
of woman-suffrage. Her works are Pas- 
sion Flowers (1854), and Words for the 
Hour (1857), two volumes of poems ; Tlie 
World's Oum, a drama, (1857) ; A Trip to 
Cuba (1860) ; Later Lyrics (186G) ; From 
the Oak to the Olive, (18tJ8) ; Modern So- 
ciety (1881), and a Life of diaryaret 
Fuller (1883.) 


Whene'er I close the door at night, 
And turn the creaking key about, 

A pang renewed as.sails m}' lieart — 
I thiidi, my darling is sliut out. 

Think that beneatli these starry skies, 
He wanders, with liis little feet ; 

The pines stand Inished in glad sur2)rise, 
The garden yields its tribute sweet. 

Thro' every well-known path and nook 
I see his angel footsteps glide, 

As guileless as the Paschal Lamb 
That kept the Infant Saviour's side. 

His earnest eye, perhaps, can pierce 
The gloom in which his ])areuts sit; 

He wonders what has changed the house, 
And why the cloud hangs over it. 

He ])asses with a jtcnsive smile — 
Why do they linger to grow old, 


And wliat tlhc l)iirtlK'ii uii tla-ir }i(.-;irt^ '/ 
Uii /li/M shiill suriow hiivu iiu huld. 

Within the darkened porch I stiiiid — 
JScai-ce knowing why, I linger long; 

Oh ! could I call thee back to me, 

Bright bird of heaven, with sooth or song ! 

J5ut no — the wayworn wretch shall pause 
To bless the shelter of this door ; 

Kinsman and guest shall enter in, 
Jiut my lost darling never more. 

Yet, waiting on his gentle ghost, 

From sorrow's void, so deep and dull, 

Gomes a faint breathing of delight, 
A presence calm and beautiful. 

I have him, not in outstretched arms, 
I hold him, not with straining sight, 

While in blue depths of quietude 

Drops, like a star, my still '* Good-uight." 

Thus, nightly, do T bow my head 

To the Unseen, Eternal force ; 
Asking sweet pardon of my child 

For yielding him in Death's divorce. 

He turned away from childish jjlays, 

His baby toys he held in scorn ; 
He loved the forms of thought divine, 

Woods, flowers, and lields of waving corn. 

• And then I knew, my little one 

Should by no vulgar lore be taught ; 
But by tlie symbol God has given 
To solemnize our common thought ; 

The mystic angels, three in one, 

The circling serpent's faultless round, 

And, in far glory dim, the Cross, 

Where love o'erleaps the human bound. 


Mine eye hath seen the glory of the coming of 

the Lord : 
He is trampling out the vintage where the 

grapes of wrath are stored ; 



He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his 
terrible swift sword ; 

His truth is marching on. 

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred 

circling camps ; 
rhey have builded him an altar in the evening 

dews and dam])s ; 
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim 

and flaring lamps, 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel writ in rows of bur- 
nished steel : 

"As ye deal with my contemners, so with ^-ou 
ray grace shall deal ; " 

Let the Hero born of woman, crush the serpent 
with his heel, 

Since God is marching on. 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall 
never call retreat ; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men l)efore his 
judgment seat ; 

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer liini ! be jubi- 
lant, my feet ! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born 

across the sea. 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures 

3'^ou and me ; 
As lie died to make men holy, let us die tc 

make men free. 

While God is marching on. 


On primal rocks slie wrote licr name. 
Her towers were reared on lioly graves, 

The golden seed that bore her came 

iSwift-winged with prayer o'er ocean wav«'S. 

The Forest bowed liis solemn crest, 
And ojK'u flung his sylvan doors; 

Meek llivers led tlie appointed (luest 
To clasjt (Ik; wide-enibratting si i ores ; 

JULIA WAKl) lloWE.— 4 

Till, fold l»y fold, the' broidered Land 
To swell her virgin vestments grow, 

While Sages, strung in heart and hand, 
Her virtue's fiery girdle drew. 

() Exile of the wrath of Kings ! 

() rilgrim Ark of Liberty ! 
Tlui refuge of divinest things, 

Their record must abide in thee. 

First in the glories of thy front 

Let the crown-jewel Truth be found : 

Thy right hand fling with generous wont 
Love's happy chain to furthest bound. 

Xet Justice with the faultless scales 
Hold fast the worsliip of thy sons, 

Thy commerce spread her shining sails 
Where no dark tide of rapine runs. 

►So link thy ways to tliose of God, 
So follow firm the heavenly laws. 

That stars may greet thee, warrior-browed. 
And storm-sped angels hail thy cause. 

O Land, the measure of our prayers, 
II«pe of the world, in grief and wrong! 

Be thine the blessing of the years, 
The gift of faith, the crown of song. 


Who are these that sit by the long dinner- 
table in the forward cabin, with a most unusual 
lack of interest in the bill of fare ? Their 
eyes are closed, mostly, their cheeks are pale, 
their lips are quite bloodless, and to every offer 
of good cheer, their " No, thank you," is as 
faintly uttered as are marriage-vows by maiden 
lips. Can they be the same that, an hour ago. 
were so composed, so jovial, so full of danger- 
ous defiance to the old man of tlie sea ? The 
ofiicer who carves, the roast-beef offers at the 
same time a slice of fat; this is too much; a 
panic runs tlmnigh the ranks, and the rout is 
instanlaiu'dus and complete. . . 



To wliat but to Dante's Inferno can we liken 
this steamboat-cabin, with its double row of 
pits, and its dismal captives ? What are 
those sighs, groans, and despairing noises, but 
the alti g%iai rehearsed by the poet ? Its 
fiends are the stewards who rouse us from our 
perpetual torpor with offers of food and praises 
of shadowy banquets, — " Nice mutton-chep. 
Sir ? roast-turkey ? plate of soup ? " Cries, 
of "No, no ! " resound, and the wretched turn 
again and groan. The Philanthropist has lost 
the movement of the age, — keeled up iu an 
upper birth, convulsively embracing a blanket — 
what conservative more immovable than he ? 
The Great Man of the party refrains from his 
large theories, which, like the circles made by 
the stone thrown into the water, begin some- 
where, and end nowhere. As we have said, he 
expounds himself no more, the significant 
forefinger is down, the eye no longer impris- 
ons yours. But if you ask him how he does, 
he shakes himself as if like Farinata — 

"averse 1* inferno In gran dispetto, " 

" ho had a very contemptible opinion ©f holl." 

Let me not forget to add, that it rains every 
day, that it blows every night, and that it 
rolls throngli the twenty-four hours till the 
whole world seems as if turned bottom up- 
wards, clinging with its nails to chaos, and 

fearing to launch away But all things 

have an end, and most things liave two. After 
the third day, a new development manifests 
itself. Various shapeless masses are carried 
up-stairs and suffered to fall like siiow-llakes 
on the deck, and to lie there in shivering 
heaps. From these larva^ gradually emerge 
features and voices, — the luncheon-bell at last 
stirs them with the thrill of returning life. 
They look uj), they lean up, they exchange 
])i'nsive swiiles of recognition, — the Steward 
comes, no licnd this time, but a ministering 
angel ; and lo I the strong man eats broth, and 


JULIA WMll) lloWE.— 

the weak woman rhimors fur [tickled oysters. — 
A Trip to Cuba. 

I low 10, Samukl G RIDLEY, the husband 
of Julia Ward Howe, was an American 
j)hysiciaM, born in 1801 ; died in 187(!. 
Jle was educated at lirown University 
and at the Harvard Medical School. From 
1824 to 1827 lie served as a surgeon in the 
Greek army, and afterwards obtained as- 
sistance in the United States for the 
Greeks who were tln-eatened with famine. 
In 1831 he again visited Europe to study 
methods of education for the l)lind, and in 
18o2 he estabHslied the Perkins Institu- 
tion for the lUind, of whicli lie was the 
superintendent. His success in the edu- 
cation of Jjaura JJridgman is well known. 
He also assisted in founding the school for 
idiotic cliildren. He was an active workcu- 
in the anti-slaveiy movement. In IHol- 
53 he edited TItc Cointiwnwealth. In 1871 
lie was one of the Commissioners sent to 
San Domingo to report upon its i)i-oposed 
annexation to the United States. He pub- 
lished various letters on topics of the time, 
a Hixtoricid Skt'tch of the Greek Ilevolniion 
(1828), and a liemJer for t/ie Blind, Tprhitcd 
in raised characters (1839.) 



HOWELL, Elizabeth Lloyd, an 
American poetess, bom in Pliiladelplua, 
about 182<S. Slie was the daughter of 
Isaac Lh)yd, a nienil)er of the Society of 
Friends, and was married to Robert Howell, 
of Philadelphia, who died not long after. 
Before her marriage she wrote the j)oem 
3Iilto7is Prayer of Patience^ which appear- 
ed in the PriertiVs Revleiv for January, 
1848; and contiibnied several poems to 
the Wheat Sheaf, (1852.) 


I am old iind blind ! 
Men point ;it me us sniitton l)y God's frown ; 
Afflicted and deserted of my kind, 

Yet am 1 not east ilown. 

I am weak, yrt sti-ong ; 
I murmur not tliat 1 Jio lonj^ersee; — 
Poor, old, and helpless, 1 the more belong, 

Father Suj)remc to Tliee. 

All-merciful One ! 
When men are farthest, then art Thou nmst 

near ; 
Wlu'ii men j)ass by. \\\\' weaknesses to shun, 

Thy chariot 1 hear. 

Thy glorious face 
Is leaning toward me, and itsholy light 
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-jilaee — 

And then- is no more tiiglit. 

( )n my bended knee 
1 recognize Tliy purjx^se eleaily sbown ; 
My vision Thou bast dinnned, that I may see 

'I'byself — Thyself alone. 

I ba\c naught to fear; 
Tiiis darkness is the shadow of Tliy wing; 
JJenealli it 1 am ahn<»st sacred — liere 

( 'an <-onie no evil thing. 

( )li : 1 .-.•.III to stand 
T^enllllin<^^ wliere foot of mortal iie'erbatb been. 

ELIZAl;i:i'll l,I,(»VI) lloWKM,.— 2 

"\Vr:ij)i)i'il in (li:it r;iili;uH(' from t lie sinlcys hiiul 

Wliich eye hath never seen. 

Visions come and go, 
Sliapes of resplendent beauty round me timing ; 
From angel-lips I seem to hear the ilow 

Of soft and h(dy song. 

In a purer clime, 
My lieing tills with rajiture — waves of tlujught 
lloll in ujion my spirit — straijis sublime 

Break over me unsought. 

Give mc now my lyre ! 
I feel tlie stirrings of a gift divine ; 
"Within my bosom gbnvs unearfbly fire, 

Lit liy no skill of miTie. 

This poem, wliieh lias soiuetinios been 
attributed to Milton, and "was even printed 
as such in an English edition of his works, 
is an aniplifioation of the following passage 
in Milton's iJrfense of the Feople of Eng- 


Since my enemies boast that this affliction 
is onl}^ a retribution for the transgressions of 
my pen, I invoke Almighty God to witness 
that I never, at any time wrote anything which 
I did not thiidc agreeable to truth, to justice, 
and to piety. This was my persuasion then, 
and I feel the s;vnie persuasion now. As long 
as in that obscurity iji which I am enveloped the 
light of the Divine presence more clearly 
shines, then, in proportion as I am weak, 1 
shall be invincibly strong ; and in proportion as 
I am blind,.! shall more clearly see. The Diviiu^ 
law not only shields me from injury, but almost 
renders me too sacred to attack ; not indeed 
from the privation of sight, as from the over- 
shadowing of those heaveidy wings which 
seem to have occasioned this obscurity ; and 
which, when occasioned. He is wont to illumi- 
nate with an interior light, more precious and 
more pure. 



HOWELLS, William Deax, an Amer- 
ican author, born in Ohio, in 1837. When 
he was three years oki his family removed 
to Hamilton, Ohio, and here he learned to 
set type in the office of the Intelligencer^ a 
weekly paper published by his fatlier. On 
their removal to Dayton in 1849, young 
Howells assisted his father in printing the 
Transcript^ and delivered the papers. He 
afterwards worked on the Oliio State 
Journal^ and the Sentinel of Ashtabula 
which the elder Howells purchased. At 
the age of twenty-two he became one of 
the editors of the State Journal at Colum- 
bus. From 1861 to 18Go he was U. S. 
Consul at Venice. Tn 1866 he became as- 
sistant editor of tlie Atlantic Montiilij, and 
in 1872 its editor. He resigned the posi- 
tion in 1881. He now has charge of the 
"Editor's Study," a critical department of 
Harper s Ma<jazine. His works include 
Poems of Two Frirn(h, with John J. Piatt 
(1860),'X/A? of Ahraha),i Lincoln (ISOO), 
l^enefian Life (186(,)), Italian. Journeys 
(1867), Suburban Sketches^ and No Love 
Lost, A Poem of Travel (1868), Their 
WedJinq Jowney (1871), A Chance Ac- 
quaintance (1873), A Foregone Conclusion 
(1874), Out of the Question, a novel, and a 
Life of Rutherford B. Hayes (1876), A 
Counterfeit Presentment (1877), Choice 
Biographies, edited with essaj'S* (1877-8), 
The Lady of the Aroostook {IKJ^), The Un- 
discovered Country (1880), A Fearful Re- 
sponsibility, and otJur Tales (1882), Dr. 
Jireens l*ractice and A Modern Instance 
(1883), A Woman s Reason (1884), Three 
Villages, Tlic Rise of Silas Lapham and 
Tuscan Cities (188r))j A Little Girl auum;) 

\vrrJ,T.\^^ dkw FrowKrj.s.— 2 

the Old M,is/crs, Thr Mhiixfrr's Charrje, 
and Indlitn Summer {\>i>^^\), Moi/ern 1t<diitn 
JWtK, and April JIojx;^ (1887.) He lias 
imblislied several ainiisiuf]^ dialoirnos, " The 
Parlor Car (1877), The Sh-ephuiCar {\^K\), 
The lleiilster (\m\),The Elevator, ^wd The 
Garmtera (1885), and Five o'clock Tea 


Lord, fur the erring tliouglit 
Not into evil wrought: 
Lord, for the wicked will 
l^etrayed and baiHcd still ; 
For the heart from itself kept, 
Our thanksgi\ing accept. 

For ignorant hopes that were 
Broken to our blind prayer: 
For pain, death, sorrow, sent 
Unto our chastisement : 
For all loss of seeming good, 
Quicken our gratitude. 


Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, 

][( tiding my breath ; 
There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept 

At the dark mystery nf I>catli. 

Weary and weak, and worn with all uni'est, 

Spnit with the strife — 
O mother, li't me weep upon th}' breast 

At the sad mystery of Life ! 


There is a bird that comes and sings 
In the l^rofessor's garden-trees ; 

Ul)on the English oak he swings, 
And tilts and tosses in the breeze. 

I know his name, I know his note, 
That so with rapture takes my soul ; 

Like llame the gold bcTieath his throat, 
His glossy cape is black as coal. 


Oriole, it is the song 

You sang me from the Cottonwood, 
Too young to feel that I was young, 

Too glad to guess if life were good. 

And while I hark, before my door, 

Adown the dusty Concord Road, 
The blue Miami flows once more 

As by the cotton wood it flowed. 

And on the bank that rises steep, 

And pours a thousand tiny rills, 
From death and absence laugli and leap 

My school-mates to their flutter-mills. 

The blackbirds jangle in the tops 

Of hoary-antlered sycamores ; 
The timorous kildee starts and stops 

Among the drift-wood on the shores. 

Below, the bridge — a noonday fear 
Of dust and shadow shot with sun — 

Stretches its gloom from pier to pier, 
Far unto alien coasts unknown. 

And on those alien coasts, above, 

Wliere silver ri|)ples break the streams 

Long blue, from some roof-sheltering grove 
A hidden parrot scolds and screams. 

Ah, nothing, nothing! Commonest things : 
A touch, a glimpse, a sound, a breath — 

It is a song the Oriole sings — 
And all the rest belongs to death. 

But Oriole, my Oriole, 

Were some bright seraph sent from bliss 
With songs of heaven to win my soul, 

From simple memories such as this. 

What could he tell to temj)t my ear 

From you ? What high thing could there be, 

So tenderly and sweetly dear 
As my lost boyhood is to me ? 


Our particular woodman was, in his way, a 
gifted man. Long before I liad dealings with 

\vii,i,iAN[ i)i:\\ ii(>\vi:ij,.s.— 4 

liim, I Knew liiiii l>v i]\c s[\\n:r]* soii^, or 
rallitT iiic;iiit;itioii, with wliicli lie aniiiiuiictMl 
liis coiiiiiii; on tlic (Jniiid (":iii;il. Tlic purport 
of this \v:is iiicn-ly thut liis hark was (tailed thi; 
Jicaiiti/iil < 'iii'oliiti, and thai Iiis fai^'ots wcru 
fine; hnl In- so dwelt upon tin- hidden Iteautios 
of this idea, and so prolonj^ed (heir elTeet upon 
the luind hv ai'tful rejietit imi. and the full, 
round, and trsonant roar wilh whiih hi' elused 
his trinniphal hymn, th:it tlie spiiil was taken 
witli tlic eh;irni, and in Id in hreal hhss admira- 

])y all odds, this w Iman's cry was tin; 

most inijjressive of all the street cries of N'cnice. 
Thpr(^ wv.iy have heen an exquisite sadness and 
sweetness in the wail of the chininey-swer-p ; a 
winninj,' j»athos in tlie voice of the vendor of 
roast pumpkin ; and oriental fancy and splendor 
ill the fruiterei-s who crieil '' iMelons with 
hearts of tire!" and '-fluicy prais (hat hallic 
your beard!" — there ma}' ha\e hccn sonu:- 
tliiiig pc^culiarly effective in the song of the 
chestnut man who sliouted " l*'at <-hestnuts," 
and added, after a lapse in wliirli \i>n jrot 
almost heyond hearintjj, "and well cooked!" — 
I do not d(Miy that there was a seductive 
sincerily in (he ])roclamation of ont; whose; 
peaches could not he called heautiful to look 
uj)on, an<! were consequently advertised as 
'' ll<rly, !mt ^o)od!"— Isay iiothin.t,' to d. -tract 
from the merits of harmonious (diair-menders ; 
— to my ears the shout of thc! melodious Jisher- 
man was didectahle music, and all the birds of 
summer sanj^ in the voices of the countrymen 
who sold finches and larks in cages, and roses 
and piidvs i-n pots ; — but I sa}', after all, none 
of these people combined the vocal power, the 
sonorous movement, the didii-ate grace, and 
the vast compass of i>ur woodman. ' \ vl (his 
man, as far as virtue went, was /•<<./• . / /u-n ft n'u'' 
in/iil. He was a A'agalxmd n|' the most 
abandoned ; he was liabitually in drink, ami I 
think his sius had gone near to make him mad 


— at any rate he was of a most lunatical de- 

In other lands, the man of whom you are 
a regular purchaser, serves you well ; in Italy 
he conceives that his long service gives him the 
right to plunder you if possible. I felt in 
every fibre that this woodman invariably 
cheated me in measurement, and, indeed, he 
scarcely denied it on accusation. IJut my 
single experience of the more magnificent 
scoundrels of whom he bought the wood origi- 
nally, contented me with the swindle with 
which I had become familiarized. 

On tliis occasion I took a boat and went to the 
Custom House, to get my fuel at first liand. 
The captain of the ship which I boarded wislied 
me to pay more than I gave for fuel delivered 
at my door, and thereupon ensued the tragic 
scene of bargaining as these things are con- 
ducted in Italy. Wo stood up and bargained, 
we sat down and bargained ; the captain 
turned his back ui)on me in indignation ; I 
parted from him and took to my boat in scorn ; 
he called me l)ack and displayed the wood — 
good, sound, dryer than bones ; lu' jxunted to 
the threatening heavens, and declared that it 
would snow that night, and on the morrow I 
could not get wood at twice the present price ; 
but I laughed incredulously. Then my cap- 
tain took another tack, and tried to make the 
contract in obsolete currencies, in Austrian 
pounds, in Venetian pounds, but as I inex- 
oral)ly rcduciid these into familiar money, he 
paused des|)cratcly, and made me an offer 
wliicli 1 accepted with mistiikcn cxidtation ; 
I'.ii' HIV caiihiiii w;is shrcw(b'r than 1. and lield 
iirts lit' niiMsiircniriil in reserve ag;iinst me. 
\\v agreed that the measni-eineiit and traiis- 
]»<irtati<»n s'lioiiM not cnst nie tlievahi(> of Iiim 
to.ilh-pielv — ^(piite an old anil worlbU-ss one — 
wliieli he sliowed nie. \'et I Was surprised 
inlci tlir paynieiit, ol'ayoulli whom this man 
(•alltMl to assist at the measurement, and I liad 


to give tlio l)K:itiii:iii (Iriiik-iiioiicy ;it tlic oml. 
Ho jii-oiiiisi'd thiit the mcasuro should Uv just : 
yet if I liftod my eye from the work lir 
phicod tlie logs slantingly on the mcasuri.', and 
threw in knotty cliunks tJiat crowded wholesome 
fuol out, and let the dayliglit tlirough and 
through the pile. I protested, and he admitt.-d 
tlie wrong whun I pointed it out: " Garazon, 
hi!" (He's right!) he said to liis fellows in 
infamy, and tlirowing aside the ohji-otionable 
pieces, proceeded to evade justice hy new 
artifices. When 1 liad tins memorable load of 
wood housed at liome, I found that it had cost 
just what I paid my wot>dman, and that T had 
additionally lost my self-rivspcct in l)oing 
plundered before my face, and I resolved there- 
after to be cheated in (piiet dignity behind my 
back. The woodman exulted in his restored 
sovereignty, and I lost nothing in penalty for 
iny revolt. — Venetian Life. 


Colville slept late, and awoke with a vague 
sense of self-reproacli, which faded afterward to 
such poor satisfaction as comes to us from the 
consciousness of having made the best of a bad 
business ; somt! j)angs of softer regret mixed 
with this. At first he felt a stupid obligation 
to keep indoors, and he really did not go out 
till after lunch. The sunshine had looked cold 
from his window, and with the bright fire 
which he found necessary in his room, he fan- 
cied a bitterness in the gusts that caught uj) 
the dust in the piazza, and blew it against the, 
line of cabs on the other side ; but when he got 
out into the weather, he found the breeze mild 
and the sun warm. The streets were thronged 
with peo]>Ie, and at all the corners there weie 
groups of cloaked and overcoated talkers, soak- 
ing themselves full of the sunshine. The air 
throbbed, as alway.s, with the sound of bells, 
but it was a mellower and o|)ener sound than 
before, and looking at the purple bulk of one 
30 -105 


of those hills which seem to rest lihe douds ;ifc 
tlie end of each avenue in Florence, Colville 
saw that it was clear of snow. He was g<'ing 
up through Via Cavourto find Mr. AVaters an<l 
propose a walk, but he met him before he had 
got half way to San Marco. 

" And you didn't go to Eome, after all ? '' 
said Mr. AVaters. 

" No ; I couldn't face the landlord with a ])eti. 
tion so preposterous as mine. 1 tuldhini that I 
found I had no money to pay his hill till I had 
seen my banker, and as he didn't pro[)ose that 
I should send him the amount hack from Rome, 
I staid. Landhn-ds have their limitati(nis ; they 
are not imaginative, as a class." 

" AVell, a day more will make no great differ- 
ence to you, I suppose," said the old man, '' and 
a day less would have been a loss to me. I shall 
miss you." 

" Shall you, indeed ? " asked Colville, with a 
grateful stir of the heart. '"It's very ]iice of 
ynu to say that." 

" ( )h no. I meet few peo]>lc who are willing 
to look at life objectively witli me, and 1 have fan 
cied some such willingness in you. What I chief- 
ly miss, over here, is a ])hilosophic lift in the hu- 
man mind, but probably that is because my op- 
jiortunities of moisting the best miiuls are few, 
and my means of conversing with them are 
small. If T had not the whole ]>ast with me 
I shouhl feel lonely at times." 

"And is the past such L,'oud coiniiaiiy al- 
Avays ? " 

" Yes, in a sense it is. The past is human- 
ily set fr«>e from circumstance, and history 
studied wliere it was once life, is the past rehu- 

As if he found this ranficd air too thin for 
his lungs, Colville made some ineffectual gasp.s 
at, and the old man continued: 
"What T mean is, that 1 meet here the 
characters I re;id of. and commune witli them 
before their errors were committed, betor*^ they 

AVILrJ.\^r dkax n(»\vi:rj-s.— s 

li;i(I cinKlciiiiicd\s to fiiilurc, wliild 
llicy were still wise :uitl suiic, hikI still iictivo 
;ui(l vitiil forces." 

" Did they all fail ? I tliou^dit S(uih' of tiio 
bad fellows had a pretty fair worldly suc- 
cess ? " 

*' The blossom of decay." 

"Oh ! what black pessimisiu ! ■' 

''Not at all! Men fail, but man succc-ds. 
I don't know what it all means, or any jiait of 
it; but I have liad moods in whirK it seemeil 
as if th(^ whole secret of the mystery were about 
to Hash upon me. Walking alon<T in the full 
sun, in the midst of men, or sometinu's in tlie 
Solitude of midiiiiijht, poriug over a booK. and 
thiidviiii; of (|uite other thinj^s, 1 lia\e I'ejt. that 
I had almost sur[)ristal it." 

" lint never quite Y " * 

"Oil, it isn't too late yet." 

" I ho2)e you won't have your revelation be- 
fore I get away from Florence, or I shall see 
them burning you here like the gTea.tfniteJ' 

They Iiad been walkingdown the Via Calzioli 
from the Duomo, and iiow they came out into 
the piazza della Signoria, suddenly, as one al- 
ways seems to do, upon the rise of the old palace, 
and the leap of its tower into the blue air. The 
history of all Florence is there, with memories 
of every great time in bronze or marble, but 
the supreme ])resence is the martyr who hangs 
forever from the gibbet over the (juenclUess lire 
in the midst. 

"Ah, they had tn kill him!" siglied the 
old mall. "It has always been so with the 
benefactors. They have always meant mankind 
more good than any one generation can bear, 
and it nmst turn upon them and destroy tliem." 

" How will it be with you, then, when you 
liave read us the riddle of ' the painful earth'/ '" 

"That will be so simple that every one will 
accept it willingl}^ and gladly, and wonder that 
no one hajipened to think of it before. And 
pei-haps the world is now grown ohl enough to 
receive tlie truth without resentment," 


"I take back my charge of pessimism," said 
Colville. " You are an optimist of the deepest 

They walked out of the piazza and down to 
the Lung' Arno, through the corridor of the 
Ufizzi, where the illustrious Florentines stand 
in marble under the arches, all reconciled and 
peaceful and equal at last. Colville shivered a 
little as he passed between the silent ranks of 
the statues. 

" I can't stand those fellows to-day. They 
seem to feel such a smirk satisfaction at having 
got out of it all." They issued upon 
the river, and he went to the parapet and 
looked down on the water. ''I wonder," he 
mused aloud," if it has the same Sunday look 
to these Sabbathless Italians as it has to us ? " 

" No ; nature isn't })uritan," replied the old 

" Kot at Haddam East Village ? " 

" No : less there than here ; for she's had to 
make a harder fight for her life there." 

" Ah, then you believe in nature — you're a 
friend of nature ? " asked Colville, following the 
lines of an oily swirl in the current with indo- 
lent eye. 

" Only up to a certain point." Mr. Waters 
seemed to be jiatient of any direction which the 
other might be giving the talk. "Nature is a 
savage. She has good impulses, but you can't 
trust her altogether." 

" Do you know," said Colville, " I don't think 
there's very much of her left in us after we 
reach a certain point in life. She drives us on 
at a great pace for a while, and then some fine 
morning we wake up and iind that nature has 
got tired of us aiid has left us to taste and con- 
science. And taste and conscience are by no 
means so certain of what they want you to do 
as nature was." 

" ^'('s," said the minister, *' I see what you 
iiH-ai:." HejoiiKMl ('olville in leaning on the 
parapet, an<l lie looked out on (hi> rivt-r as if ho 

wrrJ.TA^f dkax iiowkf^ls.— lo 

saw liis moaning tlioro. "P.iit by tli<i fimo uc 
rcaoli tliat point in lif»! most of iis liavi- <^><t tlm 
direction whicli nature meant us to take, and 
there's no longer any need of licr driving xm 

" And wliat about tlie unlut-ky fellows wlio 
haven't got the direction, or haven't kept it." 

" They had better go back to it." 

" J-Jut if nature lier.self seems to change her 
mind about you ? " 

"Ah, you mean persons of weak will. They 
are a great curse to themselves and to every- 
body else." 

"I'm not so sure of that," said(!olville. "I've 
se^n cases in which a strong will looked very 
much more like the devil.'' 

"' Yes, a perverted will, lint there can he 
no good without a strong will. A weak will 
means inconstancy. It means, even in good, 
good attempted and relinquished, is al- 
ways a terrible thing, because it is sure to be- 
tray some one who relied upon its accom[)lish- 

"And in evil ?" Perhaps IIk^ evil attempted 
and relinquished turns into good.'' 

"Oh, never!" r^plied the minister fervently. 
"There is something very mysterious in what 
we call evil. Apparently it has inlinitely 
greater force and persistence than good. 1 
don't know why it should be so. But so it aji- 

" You'll have the reason of that along with 
the rest of the secret when your revelation 
comes," said Colville. — Indian jSummer. 


One day near the close of the seventeenth 
century, a number of ladies and gentlemen — 
mostly poets and poetesses according to their 
tiiinking — were assembled on a pleasant hill 
in th(> Tieighborhood of lumie. As they loung- 
ed upon the grass, in attitudes as graceful and 
pictureeque as they could contrive, and listened 


to a sonnet or an odo with the sweet ]):itience 
of their race — for they were all Italians — it 
occurred to the most conscious man among 
them that here was something uncommonly 
like the Golden Age, unless that epoch had 
been flattered. There had been reading and 
praising of odes and sonnets the whole blessed 
afternoon, and now he cried out to the com- 
plaisant, canorous company : " Beliold Arcadia 
revived in us ! " 

This struck everybody at once by its truth. 
It struck, most of all, a certain Giovan Maria 
Crescimbeni, honored in his day and despised 
in ours as a poet and critic. He was of a cold, 
dull temperament; ''a mind half lead, half 
wood," as one Italian writer calls him : but he 
was an inveterate maker of verses, and he was 
wise in his own generation. He straightway 
])roposed to tlie tuneful ahhes cavalieri servente 
iiwd jn-ecieuses, wlio went .singing and love- 
making uj) and down Italy in those tinu's, the 
fouiulation of a new academy, to be called the 
Academy of the Arcadians. 

Literary academies were then the fashion in 
Italy, and every part of the peninsula abound- 
ed in them. They bore names fanciful or gro- 
tesque, such as Tlie Ardent, The Illuminated, 
Tlie Unconquered, Tlic Intrepid, or The Dis- 
sonant, The Sterile, The Insipid, The Obtuse, 
The Astray, The Sliunned, :ind they were all 
devoted to one pur[)ose, namely. tlu> producttion 
and jierpetuation of twaddle. It is prodigious 
to think of the incessant wash of slip-slop wliii^h 
tliey poured out in verse ; of the grave dispnla- 
tions tliey held upon tlic most trivial ques- 
tions; of th(> inane formalities of their sessions. 
At tlie miM'tings of a famous academy in 
Milan, they placed in the chair a child just 
:il)le to talk; a (pu'stlon was proposed, and 
the answer of the rliild. wliatev(>r it was, was 
hcl<l by one side to solve the problem, and tho 
debates, ^^ro and con, followed upon this jutint. 
Other academies in other cities had their follies; 

WII.LIAM l)i:.\\ II()\Vl':i,F,S.— 12 

l>ut wliatcvi'i' tlic iilisimlily, il was ciicoiira;^"'!! 
iiliko by ("liiircli ami State, uiid liointrcd l»y :ill 
tho groat \vi»rM. 'I'lic govcnunciits of Italy 
ill tliatday. wIhIIkm- lay nr clerical, like*! iidtli- 
iiig so well as til have tile intellectual life of 
the nation squandered in tho trivialities of 
tho acadoniies — in their debates about nothing, 
tlieir odes and madrigals and masks and son- 
nets ; and the greatest politeness you coidtl 
show a stranger was to invite liim to a sitting 
of your academy ; to bo furnished with a b'tter 
to the academy in tho n(;xt city was the high- 
est favor you coubl ask for yourself. 

I.n liti-raturo the linmornus ]5ernes(|ue school 
had passed ; Tasso liad long boon dead ; and the 
Noapolitan Mariiii — oaHod tlio (-(M-ruptor of 
Italian ]'ootry — rub^d from his grave tho taste 
of tho time. This taste was so bad as to re- 
quire a A^-ry des])orate remedy ; and it was 
prof(>ssodly to counteract it tliat tlie Academy 
of the Ar(;adians liad arisen. 

Tlie epoch was favoral)le ; and, as ICmiliani- 
Giudici teaches, in liis llislori/ of Jlnlinn 
Uteralure, tho idea of (!rosciml>eni spn^ad 
eh^ctrically tliroughout Italy. The gayest of 
tlu! finest ladies and gentlemen the world ever 
saw, the i/lu,.stHsNi)f>.ii>i that jxdito age, united 
with monks, priests, cardinals, and scientific 
thinkers iu establishing the Arcadia; and even 
popes and kings wore proud to enlist in the 
crusade for the true poetic faith. In all the 
chi(>f cities Arcadian colonies wore formed, 
'^ dcp<'ndiMit upon the Roman Arcadia, as upon 
tho supreme Arch Flock;" and in three years 
the Academy numbered thirteen hundred 
members, every one of whom had first been 
ol)liged to give proof that lu; was a good poet, 
they prettily calle(l themselves by the inimes of 
shepherds ami she|)herdessos out of Theocritus, 
and, being a republic, they refused to own any 
earthly prince or ruler, but declared tht^ P)al.>y 
Jesus to be the Pnjtector of Arcadia. Their 
code of laws was written in elegant Latin by a 



gnivc and learned man, and inscribed upon 
tablets of marble. 

As a pattern of perfect poetizing, these art- 
less nymphs and swains chose Constanzo, o 
very fair poet of the sixteenth century, Tlie\', 
collected his verse, and printed it at the ex- 
pense of the Academy ; and it was established 
without dissent that each Arcadian in turn, 
at the hut of some conspicuous shepherd, in 
the presence of the keeper (such was the jargon 
of those most amusing unrealities), should 
deliver a commentary upon some sonnet of 
Constanzo. As for Crescimbeni, who declared 
that Arcadia was instituted "strictly for the 
purpose of exterminating bad taste, and of 
guarding against its revival ; pursuing it con- 
tinually, wherever it should pause or lurk, even 
to the most remote and unconsidered villages 
and hamlets" — Crescimbeni could not do h^ss 
than write four dialogues, as he did, in which 
lie evolved from four of Constanzo's sonnets all 
that was necessary for Tuscan lyric poetry. 

*' Thus," says Emiliani-Giudici, referring to 
the crusading intent of Crescimbeni," the 
Arcadians were a sect of poetical Sanfedists, 
who, taking for example the zeal and perform- 
ance of San Domingo de Guzman, proposed 
to renew in literature the scenes of the Itoly 
Uflico among the Albigenses. Happily the 
lire of Arcadian verse did not really l)urn ! The 
institution was at first derided tiien it tri- 
umjdied and j)revailed in such fame and great- 
ness tiiat, shining fortli like a new sun it con- 
sumed the splendor of the lesser lights of 
heaven eclipsing the glitter of all these 
academies — the Thunderstruck, the Extrava- 
gant, the [luniid, the Tipsy, the Ini])eciles, and 
the Y\]n' — which had hitluato formed the glory 
of the J'eniusula. — JI<></r/'/i Italian Poets. 


ANNA M.^l;^■ iiowitt.— i 

irOWIT'l', Anna Mai: v. the <l.iiigl,iof 
of Willhun ;iii(l Mary JIowiLl, boiii iii 
1824; died in 1884. She sttidied paint- 
ing in Mnnicli. In 1858 she pnhlislied 
An Art Student in Munich, and m 18.55, 
The School of Life, a novel. She married 
a son of the pout Aharic A. Watts. Later 
she published Pioneers of SpiritualiHin. 

ON jiiK WAV TO ohk:r-ammergau. 

They call Murnau a town, but it is a mar- 
vellously small one, aiul would have been as 
still us death, but for the Amuitrgau visitors. 
So great was the overflow of strangers at the 
Gast-JIaus, that it was ii<jt without difficulty 
we were able to secure a chumber to <iurselves. 
The bustle and confusion, the hubbub and noise 
in the house, were inconceivable, and therefore, 
although we were to start at half-past one in 
the morning, and had consequently very little 
time for rest, the calm evening sunshine out 
of doors soon invited us forth. The mountains 
seemed fairly to close in the street of the little 
town, but still a plain extended from the gentle 
slope on which JNIurnau stands to the foot of 
the Alpine chain. 

As the sun sank in a golden heaven, str(\'vlci'd 
with lilac and mse, tinting with rainbow-colors 
tilt' glittering })eaks of the most elevated and 
distant snowy ridge, the nearest, and lower 
chain was cast into a mysterious violet gloom, 
and the intermediate ranges were turned to 
deep indigo, almost black by shadow, or copper- 
color and russet in the evening glow. IJeneath 
us lay the j)lain, golden in the evening light; 
long shadows cast athwart it from poplars and 
cherry-trees ; beyond us this mountain vision, 
like the very gates of si)irit-land ; above our 
heads glowed an azure and pearly-tinted heaven, 
flecked with fantastic, gorgeous cloudlets ; 
beneath our feet, noddi-d, in the soft evening 
breeze, flowers as bright as gems, orange, 



deep Mue, crimson, and lilac ; Alpine flowers 
mingling with old English friends — the lady's 
mantle, the graceful quaking-grass, the daisy, 
the mountain-piidv, and mountain-cistus. AVe 
sate and watched the azure shadows ci-eeping 
up the mountains, and the light fading away 
from the snowy peaks, till they were left cold 
and white, and winterly, and till a deep, stern 
solemnity sank down lapon the whole scene, 
and upon our hearts. When all was gray and 
mysterious, and the silence of twilight had he- 
come yet more perceptible from the ceasing of 
the vesper-bell, which had been sounding from 
a distant church, we reluctantly turned our 
faces homewards. Stalwart women, and girls, 
strong as men, were resting themselves at their 
doors, or fetching water at the fountains, as we 
passed up the village street. Where were the 
men and boys ? I know not : — perhaps in the 

It was a strange fragment of a night, that 
at Murnau ! Throwing ourselves, half-dressed, 
on our beds, we tried to sleep ; but that was 
impossible ; the whole town was active, and 
nearly as noisy as Cheapside, with an incessant 
rattle of ])easants' carts, Stellwagen, and vt^hi- 
cles of all descriptions, which were jolting 
over the uneven pavement on their way to 
Ammergau ; and if, by any chance, j'ou did 
lose consciousness for a moment, you were 
woke up again by the watchman chanting his 
verse, and calling out the quarters of the Imur. 

]Jy one o'clock all the travellers were again 
astir ; by half-jiast, having scalded their mouths 
with a cup of boiling coffee, and having in 
their sleepy haste run agaiiist each other, laden 
with carpet-bags and umbrellas, on dark stair- 
cases and in dindy lighted passages, all had 
subsi<l(Ml into cold and silence within the )Stell- 
iriif/f //. W'r again took our jtlaces in the cab- 
ri<det. Clare's sleepy liead suidv iipon my 
shoulder, whilst T, oidy too widely awake, gazed 
out into the starlight, and felt, rather than saw, 


ANNA MA in' I low ITT.— :5 

tliat we were ciitrriiit; the mountain gorge. 
JStelhoagen after /^(clhrat/en. pas.sod us, to be 
re-passed by us in their turn ; now an J'Cil- 
wage7i with its four liorses and postilions; now 
a gentleman's carriage with its flaring lamps ; 
now we passed groups of pedestrians; now 
wagon after wagon, filled with peasant women, 
their long rows of white draperied heads Hit- 
ting along the dark road before us like strange 
moths, and looking in the cold, gray light of 
dawn, as j)hantoin-like, almost, as the cold, 
white, Solemn peaks, draperied with sin»wabov(( 
us. The roar of a mountain river aeconip;inied 
us through the night; in the early dawn we 
were still travelling along its bank. The vil- 
lages through which we passed were half cludced 
up with heaps of timber; rafts were floating 
down the stream, or were moored to its banks; 
giant pine-trees were lying prostrate by the 
river's edge", ready to be converted into rafts. 
This lowerrange of mountains was clothed with 
2»inc trees to its very summit. 

It was now four o'clock on Sunday morning, 
and intensely cold; w^e were well jdeascd, 
therefore, at the foot of the Ettalberg, to 
alight from our cabriolet, and commence with 
our fellow-passengers, and numerous other pil- 
ffrinis. the ascent of the mountain on foot. 
Colli as it was, the sun was ah-eady shining 
down into the pleasant birch and pine woods 
through which our road wound, and gihling 
the mountain j)eaks; a torrent was dashing 
and iiapiiig o\('r huge rocks in the gorge be- 
low us ; (he birds were singing, and all was 
fresh anil joyous. The most remarkable feat- 
ure of the scene, however, was the ])eople. 
From the rustic inn at the foot of the mountain 
to the inn at the top, Avhere is a certain pil- 
grimage church, and all along the road thence 
to Ammergau, as far as the eye could reatrh, 
was one dense stream of people. The crowd 
of peasants ascending the mountain was to mo 
an affecting sight ; my eyes and my heart in- 



voluntarily filknl witli tears. Their earnest, 
grave, yet cheerful cuuuteaances tukl me that 
it was a dee[) religious object wliich they had 
in view : it was not curiosity and the love of 
pleasure which urged them up that steep as- 
cent ; it was with faith and jiious hope that 
they pressed onward. Men, women, old 
and middle aged, youths, maidens, children, 
family groups, neighbors and friends all band- 
ed together to witness this outward rendering 
of the spirit of their creed. The variety of 
costume showed that the whole district for 
many miles round had sent out its votaries. 
There were groups of pure Tyroleans, with 
their green sugar-loaf hats adorned with golden 
cord and tassels, tufts of feathers or artificial 
flowers ; there were many semi-Tyrolean 

dresses, and vast numbers of women wearinsc 

tlie queer, heavy, 'J artar-looking cap of badger- 
skin, peculiar, I believe, to the Ober-Ammer- 
gau district ; there were boddices and petti- 
coats and head-dresses of e^•ery color of the 
rainbow — red, green, and blue, being, how- 
ever, ])redomiiuint ; there was a considerable 
sprinkling also of the swallow-tailed gold and 
silver Munich cap, and no end of red umbrellas. 
How gay this winding multitude made the 
mountain, you can well imagine ! Slowly and 
painfully behind each group ascended the poor 
tired horses, dragging the skeleton-like peas- 
ant's cart, /Stdlw<.u/(n or ijinxpann, as it 
might be. — An Art A::>(iide?it in Munich. 

This book is DUE on the last 
date stamped below 



iim^ 6 ft£m 




3m-6, '50(550)470 

,/• ; f,'^ '± X, 

'r» r 



AA 000 416 199 

1 ;->.' ■ • w..- -i^. -